#i am very tired at the moment so no screen edits for this

[generalsdiary]

a stupid bet (part 2)

gn!reader x Dr. Ratio

part one here

warnings: kissing, suggestive themes, occasional curse words (?)

word count: 6k~

a/n: didn’t expect so many of you to like it, so here’s part two, I knew which way I wanted to take this – and no it isn’t smut like some might assume. two adults with a complicated situation such as this would behave a tad differently, this ain’t a movie after all. but it was fun writing, a bitch to edit it, I hope you guys like this one as well, I am quite pleased with how it turned out. not beta read (we get snapped like Tingyun), if he is ooc this has been written before he became playable ((doubt there will be another part btw))

description: the aftermath of the bet, how the new dynamic functions, stubborn and arrogant attitudes with the fear to show emotions underneath it, all the while yearning for each other (fluff) yes they are communicating, this ain’t miscommunication trope, DW

It is the same day. Late at night with the workplace practically empty, you are finishing up some work. Being in a high position of power means also late hours, you stand up to stretch from sitting for hours.

It is quiet, everything seems still and desolate, with only the occasional sounds of machines, the soft buzzing of the lights, and the occasional Ruan Mei’s creation passing through.

You’re not alone to your surprise. Another figure also stands up to stretch, you aren’t aware of the presence until you hear the low sigh.

Veritas Ratio was still here, also finishing up work, just like yourself. Both hardworkers it seems… You two have a lot more in common than either of you would ever care to admit.

Upon acknowledging each other's presence he simply says. “Oh, so you’re still here as well?”

You nod, not finding the words to say, plus small talk is pointless in your mind. To which he nods back.

“Mind if I ask what kind of work you’re still working on at the time of night?” He tilts his head, you don’t know if it is cockiness in his voice or actual curiosity. On the other hand, he should also be very aware of your area of work.

“I’m done- about to head home~” You avoid the question, the simple rivalry and some sort of defensiveness still existing.

“Huh.” He ponders for a moment. “We’re both here, we’re both almost done and we’re both also heading out? It seems we’re more similar than I thought.” He makes a lame joke, to which you cross your arms and stare him down with a raised eyebrow as if to ask ‘Seriously?’.

You do answer, more of a scoff, “Perhaps” as you turn off the screen. Then the irony of the stupid attempt at the joke also brings a smile to your face. You don’t even notice it.

He also slightly smiles, realizing the stupidity of it, “Well… I mean, we’re already here at this late night. We could also just go ahead and leave together if it is alright with you?”

You nod, not thinking much of it, “Sure, c'mon.” You two exit the building.

He happily follows you out and you both soon exit the large lab building and walk out into the dark and chilly night. You weren’t aware, or maybe you didn’t notice the weather conditions being added to Herta’s space station. You two walk, all alone in the dark of late night, with only each other’s company to keep you warm.

He looks over to you, as he whispers. “Seems so peaceful and calm here, doesn’t it? It feels as if everyone has vanished from the station with you and me only left standing. Some life of the scientist huh?”

You nod at his words. Noticing your silence, it didn’t feel awkward, more tired, full of confusing thoughts and comforting silence. He continues, “How about we just keep walking without saying anything else? Let’s just… let’s just walk together and enjoy the peace of this… artificial night.”

“Sure” You didn’t mind his suggestion, walking beside him and feeling tempted to hold his hand.

He also gets an urge to hold your hand and even, hold you close. This quiet, late night has always made him feel at ease and rest, and this moment is no exception. In the darkness, it feels different, the way you two interact and behave.

You break the silence. “I’m still shocked we kissed today” to which he chuckles softly.

“I could almost say that I was surprised too. It didn’t feel like just any old kiss, it felt… like there was so much more inside it. A sort of intensity, a spark, that I couldn’t shake off for a long time. Almost as if my body felt as though it could simply melt from that kiss. It took me a bit to focus on my work again today.” He dryly chuckles.

You laugh softly at his analysis, “It appears someone liked it a lot.” And also avoiding the thoughts of it. He laughs softly at your tease and whispers, his voice a bit more tender and sensual. “Oh, I definitely liked it. I liked it a lot. It was as if I could hear some sort of music playing in that kiss. It was as if the very notes that this melody was composed of was just for that single kiss… that was the impression the kiss left on me…”

You smile, “Interesting” Is he actually truthful or mumbling nonsense? Who could know? You two bump into each other while walking and your nostrils fill with his cologne again today, just like while you were kissing and you sigh.

He also sighs and feels a sudden urge to wrap his arm around your waist, to take you in towards himself. He barely holds back the urge. “Interesting would be an understatement. You and I really must share a similar taste,” his voice goes lower, “but I can say one thing. I don’t think there was enough of our… closeness and the kissing.” He has more thoughts about this, yet quite unlike him he decides to keep them to himself, the thoughts of how your lips feel like they were made to just kiss each other and only each other, and perhaps meant to walk together in these quiet night station hours… He sighs softly, his mind turning into just nonsense.

It certainly is pleasant to be walking during these hours, and his words make you ponder over your thoughts and possible bubbling emotions. The calmness is unlike most other places, yet this peaceful atmosphere keeps you calm with which you also feel a bit of temptation. Feeling like you want to give in, want to take his hand in yours… Be close to him.

You both walk slowly, wanting perhaps to be closer to one another, your hands bumping into each other as you walk. Your bumps, as well as every other accidental touch and brush, only seem to tempt you further.

When your fingers brush against his you move them away like you got burnt, it feels like a zap of electricity, they feel too hot, too cold… like fire. And you wonder… gods why do you just want to hold his hand and get burnt? It seems as if those accidental touches are now turning even more intentional. You both keep the slow pace, perhaps both enjoying the feeling of being this close together and not wanting it to end.

Silence befalls you two once more. You don't know what to say. Stuck in a quiet and silent moment, as your bodies brush against each other with each step. Shoulders bumping, fingers brushing. Gravitating closer, you can feel that gentle heat of his body. There isn't much you two can say at this moment – you should just let this peaceful, calm, yet sensual and tempting moment speak for itself… a moment like this is worth more than any words could ever describe. Although this is more like a set of moments, rather than a single moment. Time feels like it is speeding by, seconds running yet it also feels like it has been slowed down.

„Veritas,“ You say his name softly. At the sound of your voice, he turns his head a little bit and looks right at you through the faint night lights. The look on his face seems to be filled with longing and passion, a look on his face that seems to be waiting for you to complete whatever sentence you were trying to say. He seemed quite eager to hear what you were about to say. His eyes looked as if they were burning with passion. Or perhaps you just imagined it all and he was merely waiting for you to speak, but you had his attention.

„You said you wanted to get to know me,“ you're looking ahead while walking, „yet we walk in silence.“ You try to slice the silence, the tension and thoughts of how he smells and how warm his touch would feel filling your mind, so you try to make conversation.

He nods and chuckles softly as you make this observation, „The truth is… it's just that I am enjoying being so close to you that I'd rather keep walking like this for a bit… I just…“ he sighs, closing his eyes for a moment, „I just want to feel you next to me without having to speak a word. And to also be honest…“ His voice turned to a whisper. „…I'm feeling a bit tempted. The quiet and the... silence of the night making everything feel so much more sensual, I'm having a hard time resisting…“

You look up at him, hoping your cheeks aren't shaded pink, „Resisting?“

He is fast to answer, „Resisting the temptation… I want to kiss you again… I want to feel that warmth again. Your perfume is driving me insane… I just want to get lost inside of you with every kiss… with every touch…“

Veritas' words leave you in shock, he is completely frank, and blunt. Your thoughts scatter at his eagerness. You offer a small reaction. „Oh…“

He chuckles silently to himself at your surprised reaction, he is getting slightly out of hand, out of his usual stoic self, leaning closer while walking to say, „I mean, we could stop here and just enjoy these feelings with each other. No words are needed. I believe the quietness and the silence have just really been making everything feel so much more… as I already said, sensual. So I ask you, dearest, would you like to continue walking together as we are, or would you like to let these feelings finally get the best of us, and just… kiss?“

You stop walking and look up at him. You smirk, „You don't have a lot of self-control with indulgence now, do you?“ You tilt your head when you say these teasing words. Then almost like karma, an artificial draft blows past you two, his cologne filling his senses, making you close your eyes while it returns you the what happened earlier that day before you open your eyes again.

Veritas' eyes light up when you point out the lack of self-control but he can't help but chuckle softly. „You don't know half of it. It has been eating at me today, seems like a dam of suppressed… thoughts burst through. And they seem to be getting better of me the more and more we stand like this. I do apologize for my eagerness, it is improper… Would you really like to know just how hard it has been to hold back from simply kissing you?“ He adds the last sentence as if he is saying a secret, whispering it softly.

You smirk, „Oh, do tell me~“ Barely hiding the way his cologne almost had you swept off of your feet. Of course, he sees your reaction, just how much of an effect he seems to be having on you right now. You can feel your body just wanting to sway towards his, wanting to feel his touch, his warmth.

„Oh, where should I begin“, he does his analysis as a doctor, „My breathing has been feeling… hot and heavy… it's almost as if my heart rate has been rising faster than normal, or perhaps the fact I want to embrace you with every fiber of my being right now. But don't make me start listing the symptoms.“ He ends with a smile, to which you smile back. You'd never normally do that, you wonder what is it about this late at night?...

„Well, a mere hug is innocent enough, Veritas“ You smirk, teasingly and continue walking now. He laughs at your words before speaking, „Indeed it is. But the problem I find with this so-called 'innocent hug' is that it would inevitably lead us into the unavoidable action of you and I embracing tighter and tighter until a point where our hands may wonder and- let me not ramble, but“, he whispers into your ear, „A hug is just the beginning. Would you still like such an 'innocent' act of a hug?“

He is right, and you know he is. You try hard to not imagine it as he speaks, struggling to hold the thoughts back, to try to ease the tension you tease. “Overthinking~” You shoot him down and walk, avoiding anything upfront and making it obvious to the clever man as to why. You know he is as desperate as you to touch each other, feel, hold hands… And confused by it.

“My dear friend”, the nickname icks you the wrong way, but you ignore it, “I have quite the knack for figuring things out. And I can easily see that you want to hold me and embrace me too, but you seem to want to tease and want to be teased. Would you like to tease you a little bit?” He smirks, reading you like a book and recognizing the weak spots he can aim at.

“Oh, Veritas please don’t tease me, I don’t take it well. And, also, I assume then the innocent hug would be a bad idea.” You answer honestly rather than putting up a strong front that would crumble in mere seconds.

He is amused at your sudden concern about being teased and has an amusing tone of voice, “Alright, alright then. I promise to not tease you… well… not too much. Yes… no hug for us. It would lead us to do more… well, it would lead us down a very… not so innocent path.”

You two continue walking at a rather slower pace, you get the feeling of just how close the two of you are getting, bodies moving almost in sort of a sync, every little sway that one of you makes is seemingly replicated by the other. It is as if all other movements have faded away, except for the two of you walking together silently in the darkness.

Your fingers brush each other making you sigh. The touch of your fingertips is felt through the fabric of clothes. You become aware of each other's breathing in this silence. It all drives you insane, why do you want to hold his hand so badly… it makes you sigh again. It appears your fingers brushing has the same effect on him, your hands gravitationally shifting towards each other, as if trying to come in contact with each other, you can barely resist and you can tell Veritas is struggling not to just take your hand in his. More bumping, the desire to hold hands feeling like a natural response at this point, yet you don’t. “Veritas…” You quietly sigh.

The sound of your sigh sends shivers down his spine, turning his head to look at you, and his face is readable like a children’s playbook right now. His desires are, the same as yours. Maybe you’re both too prideful and too scared, to be honest with each other.

“We are almost where I live.” You gesture with your head, telling him the walk will end soon. You now brush your hand against his on purpose, the feeling of getting burned makes your heart skip a beat. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow then…”

He nods and you two stop near your place. His mind wishes for an embrace but you two decided against that, his eyes scanning your body as if wishing he could keep this view of you in his head. “Good night.”

People are much more honest at night time, especially if tired, the walk was something… You sigh when you enter your home, feeling frustrated, the chemistry between you two is insane, but your pride, much like his, is too big. Both without the courage to make the next move. Playing this back-and-forth game, with neither of you being willing to take the leap of being the one to start it. Kissing can be discarded always, but if someone states their feelings… with both of your arrogant personalities and your ‘enemy’ like history… well it isn’t an easy thing. So for now, you both go your separate ways, yet wishing you were in his arms, you and him laying alone in bed.

The thought of him keeps crossing your mind. You are thinking of him as you crawl into bed, feeling the weight and warmth of the blankets surrounding you. As you lay there, you think about how it felt to walk beside him. Imagining how it would feel to sleep beside him, feel his body next to yours. Sleep overcomes you, dreams end up being of him.

The night passes by and another work day begins. As you walk into your workplace you can see Veritas walking to his desk, right across yours. He meets your eyes for a moment, it is obvious that last night left both of you shaken up and still confused… which is an understatement, to be true to the fact, both scared, tension still hanging in the air between you two.

Occasional rumors about the people who saw you kissing feel annoying to you but you divert your attention to work. Both focused on work in your own separate bubbles, time passes by quickly. Yet your mind doesn’t clear up, not with all the hushing and whispering of your co-workers in the background. Everyone seems to be chatting about this supposed ‘romantic attraction’ you have to each other, while you two pretend nothing happened yesterday. You make an effort to not even glance at him, at his indigo hair which just makes you wonder if it would feel as soft with your fingers going through it- no, you stop your thoughts.

Feeling tired from a few hours of work and your mind distracting you with memories and scenarios you get up from your desk, intending to walk outside and get a break, catch some air. Your work building has experiments of installing new weather conditions on the station getting performed on it, so you look forward to the artificial wind on the rooftop.

While you walk away, you hear footsteps, someone had the same intention as you. Following right behind you.

Outside you find a spot without anyone, yet the footsteps follow close behind. You slowly breathe in, and the air feels fresh, the experiment might be successful, but it sure feels real. You turn around to see who followed you to ruin your break and time alone.

When you turn, you find Veritas staring right back at you. You both wanted to get away and walk away from all the noise. His face is neutral, but his eyes are soft while he tries to figure out your mood, and your thoughts. The tension fills the air again, especially since he is the one person who wouldn't help with all the thoughts you had of him.

„Morning“, you say simply, standing a few steps away.

„Good morning to you too.“ He nods, tilting his head slightly, „Did you also want to get a break or some… space from everything?“

„Needed a break, yeah.“ You nod back.

Attempting to turn the conversation about work his tone sounds formal, „The work can be exhausting, stressful… especially when people keep… gossiping“, he gives you a knowing look, „and everything.“

„Sleep well?“ Your voice is also formal, yet soft, not as loud as it would be if you asked him while inside.

„I'll admit“, he chuckles, „I was having a few interesting dreams last night, but other than that, I slept nicely. How was your rest last night?“ You notice how this isn't something a co-worker or a close colleague would just say to one another. You both were behaving differently, dancing on the line, on the edge of it.

„It was alright.“ You keep it simple, as silence falls again. The silence could be cut with a butter knife when the air feels thick, tension growing as you keep staring at each other. How did years of disliking and rivalry turn into this… tension after the bet and the kiss? Well, more than one kiss, but that's beside the point. Both prideful, so prideful. Like cats, predatory cats, so carefully circle their prey, but not sure if the prey is poisonous yet. Both are in the same boat, feeling the same way.

You sigh, „Veritas, I'm-„, you exhale „frustrated, but… prideful. Like you.“ His gaze was still on you when you spoke, his eyebrows raising at your words. Both struggle to get any words out regarding the matter, yet the electricity between you two is too strong, too powerful. You feel a pull towards him, and you look away.

Veritas stares at you for another few moments, before looking down to clear his mind.

„You're awfully quiet“ You complain and move away a few steps.

At this point, he also struggles to contain it anymore. His chest filled with a strange feeling of some sort of anxiety at wanting to say something yet holding himself behind. Even as you walk away from him, he calls your name, making you turn around. „Wait-„ He looks almost vulnerable, yet it could be the experiment's artificial sun making you imagine things. You make a few steps closer, raising your chin, „Yes?“

„I wish to ask you something“ He speaks softly.

„Ask.“ You look at him, a strong wind blows and you both move closer to the wall of the building, the entrance to the rooftop area, now a step or two apart.

Standing closer you can almost feel the heat of his body, it makes you tremble for a second – or is it just your imagination playing with you? He leans closer, and you also feel the desire to lean in close to him as well. He is about to say something when rain starts falling heavily and you both move under the entrance's rooftop, your bodies close to each other. So close, so close… your face a breath away. He exhales shakingly. You make an observation, a wrong one, „Why are you nervous?“

He chuckles a little bit, „Quite the opposite actually. Just finding the words for the question.“

You deadpan, „Ask then.“

The wind blows stronger moving the direction of the rain falling and you two move even closer together. The proximity makes your mind hazy, struggling to find words. Upon moving closer and the sudden temperature drop you feel the heat between your bodies, the strong wind now blowing the rain right over you. The feeling of electricity makes you both lean in closer while your hair and clothes get damp from the rain. The rain cooling you down, your breaths mingling and you curse under your breath.

Almost like you could read his mind you find the words for the very thing on his mind, „Why are we like this?“

“I… we’ve been like this ever since… well we’ve been like this for years. I feel so drawn to you…”

You tsk at his words and look away, your voice full of complaints, “I can’t get you off of my mind since the bet, your… cologne, and your- our kissing… Why the hell do you smell so good?” You furrow your brows.

He chuckles when he hears talk about the bet, making his cheeks blush a soft pink, and laughs a bit when you mention his scent.

You sigh, continuing your complaining, “And it doesn’t help that you’re so goddamn attractive and the fact that despite our hatred we know each other pretty damn well, so all this… tension…” Your words make the man chuckle warmly. He nods, agreeing that you are very familiar with one another, also feeling attracted to you. Veritas looks at you curiously.

Even after the intimate moment in the hallway yesterday you both still hesitate. You sigh, thinking of more things to complain about while he smirks at you and remains quiet.

He wonders, maybe it was more than a bet, maybe an excuse to actually get close to him, he will ask you more about it in the future. You both hesitate now, staying quiet with something just on the tip of your tongue.

You narrow your eyes, “You’re surprisingly quiet for a man who always had something to say about me.” To which he chuckles, very much aware of how right you are. He always had something to pick on about you. But now, he can’t help but smile at you silently. You curse at him softly, “Cat got your tongue?” He laughs even more, the proximity making him speechless, he looks down shaking his head slightly in amusement while you shake your head and look behind him. The tension fills up, cold rain hitting you, the desire to kiss rising. You both turn to face each other and your lips brush accidentally, just barely. You can feel your own heart beating faster when you slow your movements, almost like freezing upon the soft brush. It all feels overwhelming as you both fight the desire to kiss. You sigh and look down.

While you’re focused on resisting your urges, he moves closer. The two of you are breathing heavily, you can feel his breath against your lips, the heat of his body. You observe the way he drifts closer, but his hands remain at his sides. So proud, so hesitant.

You look at each other, the final drop about the overflow everything, you want to reach out, and his hands are formed in fists to hold back his wish to touch you.

You curse and meet his gaze, “I can’t- I… I am not a patient person, Veritas” You say sternly before meeting his lips. This time it feels as if the tension of years that passed is getting released. You both press up against each other, the heat rising. The kiss feels like it will be a longer one, your hunger to kiss him only growing while the rain pours down your back. Your hands move up his chest, over his soaked shirt, feeling the muscles of his torso, one hand moving to his damp hair pulling him closer even.

He turns pushing you gently against the wall, pressing his body into yours almost offering protection from the rain and the wind, unhelpful, you both keep getting watered down like dried plants. Not that you two would notice it that much at this point. The rain is pouring down on you, washing away your worries. You breathe in, his scent swimming around the air, making your mind foggy, both desiring to be even closer to each other. His hand stays a moment on your hips before moving to your back, pushing you into him, the proximity between you two nonexistent.

You pull away, creating a tiny distance between your lips, mumbling, “Sorry”.

He shakes his head softly, but his eyes are on your lips, they’re wet from the rain, like his. He breathes heavily, attempting to catch his breath. You look at each other, the loud rain falling the only sound.

Feeling like your actions spoke louder than words you don’t say anything more than that. He notices, chuckles, and speaks, “I know our… history. I may have never admitted myself but I always found you so… insanely clever, strategic… hot- and all of our good and bad conversations, moments when we behaved as friends- and moments when we were behaving as enemies… I- I was just too stubborn to acknowledge it- that, there might be something below the surface.”

And he was right, you two from yesterday played this back and forth, of talking and making out to prove points, and stating your confused feelings and thoughts, yet still held back. It is difficult, the fear that he might turn around and smirk, mock you for believing his actions, saying it was an experiment or something. It is very obvious that he is experiencing the same fear. Your walls are up high, and so are his. The never-ending pride, arrogance, strategy- move planning, what is the other person thinking… Is this another of his tricks… are you playing a trick on him? Too many years of lending a helping hand, or giving a snarky comment as a bully would. Of course, you would both be on edge, on the edge of control to not jump each other's bones, on the edge of misbelief, on the edge of calling him a liar. Because would you even dare imagine such a thing? You and him… him and you… It sounds good, feels right and feels wrong, feels strange, and feels like it was always meant to be- yet it doesn’t. So you both stand tall, defensive, and wishing for the other's attention. Hoping to recognize the truth and escape the lies.

He whispers, “This rivalry seems like it was an excuse to stay close, which at this moment-“, he smirks, leaning closer, “I don’t mind at all, wouldn’t you agree?”

You shake your head, whispering back, “I don’t know anything anymore”

It is painfully attractive the way he leans above you, his nose next to yours droplets of water dripping down it and falling to your lips. It feels intimate, that one droplet… you lick it off of your lips, and his eyes are glued to the action, inhaling slowly. He gathers himself and whispers, “May I propose a goal? A tool of discovery? A new goal, to sway off of rivalry, a goal of keeping ourselves united and closer than ever, and of helping each other become the best we can be and be the best we want to be for each other?”

You smirk, easily reading between the lines, “Are you asking me to date you?”

Veritas chuckles under his breath, every word spoken softly, no need for any loud or even normal volume, “Yes… yes, I am… it may be ridiculous, but I just… can’t deny the strength of…”, he makes a small break, finding himself at a loss of proper words, “us.” He looks up, “Imagine it… how brilliant we are together. Yes, I could ramble on about a ‘power couple’ of sorts and intellect and how smart we are, but I just want you. I don’t care about that, I love your genius, and the way you work and behave- it is extremely attractive I might add.” He smiles, and continues, “In this moment, I just want you, I want to keep you close, stay close to you, I want to see us and where we would go, would we work…”

You fidget with his fingers, thinking it all over, the cold water cooling you down and the passionate kiss you had moments ago moving away from your mind. Going out, to get to know each other isn’t a bad idea… but you know so much, years of him, years of Doctor Veritas Ratio and his habits. If anything you already know his flaws, as well as his virtues. This leaves only one option you’d do, “I may find myself agreeing to a new goal, Veritas Ratio.” He smiles at your words, but you still feel uneasy- like this is a dream you will wake up from and you are again being snarky to each other, the thoughts don’t help so you say more to yourself than to him as he says, “Thank you-“, interrupting him, “Oh, hush now” and crashing your lips on his again, to drown the thoughts.

This time the kiss feels slower in a way, deeper, passionate. He cups your cheek, his thumb gently caressing your cheekbone. It is almost sensual, the desire still clings onto you two, below the surface, an eternal dance between attraction and emotions, fast making out and slow meaningful touches.

You dare to take your hand in his, he swiftly gives you a small squeeze, and slowly separates your lips, with your bodies still pressed against each other.

Looking at him it feels strange to think he is taken, moreover that he is taken by you. He is yours… well, and you are his. He leans in kissing you softly once more, and you feel both of your desires rising again- “Veritas”, you mumble against his lips. He clings onto you even more, truly lacking the mentioned self-control in moments like these, you catch your breath, separating from the kiss, completely soaked with rain now. “Just because we are at the top of the food chain doesn’t mean we should abuse our power and take too long breaks.” You say in a normal voice, it is very much so unlike either of you to behave such a way, and he probably got carried away.

He laughs softly, nodding to your words. Pulling slightly away to give you some space, the wet clothes making you stick together makes both of you laugh, and he gently tugs his shirt away.

A couple of moments of silence pass, his hand caressing your cheek, gazing into your eyes, not trying to read you like he usually is, it looks like he is almost… adoring you.

Soon enough you two return to work. When asked about why you’re soaking wet- you call out the weather experimenting on the roof, to which people nod in understanding or the reckless ones dare laugh.

Later that day, again you two are the last to leave, and you walk, again, just like the night before. The night is quiet, there’s a cool draft when you exit the building, you both walk in silence, there are not a lot of words to say, and there are too many. At least you’re now together, each other’s. Your hands bump into one another.

You sigh, not wanting yesterday’s walk to repeat, and take his hand in yours, making him smile. It may all be complicated and confusing, but this feels right. You will take it slowly, this… everything. His thumb caresses your knuckles and you two walk with more ease, bumping less into each other.

When you reach your home you both stop, “Good night, Veritas” You say softly, releasing his hand, your mind does wonder how his body would feel warming up yours, would he hold you tight, would he snore… You chuckle at your thoughts. Similarly, to you, he wonders how it would feel to have his arms wrapped around you tightly, your bodies pressed against each other the entire night. You keep staring at each other- “You won’t say good night back?” You tilt your head, teasing, knowing he is thinking about something.

He laughs gingerly, raising an eyebrow and shrugging, “I wasn’t quite sure if you finished saying your goodbye yet, since you were… hmm… staring at me” He smiles brightly, happy with how he phrased it. “But yes, good night. It was nice walking with you. I shall see you tomorrow.” He reaches for your hand and places a soft kiss on the back of it while making eye contact, you step closer and kiss his cheek, whispering, “Sweet dreams, Veritas”.

[hussyknee]

Red, White & Royal Blue: Collector's Edition Henry PoV bonus chapter by Casey Mcquiston.

(transcribed from the page pictures posted)

This is the coda to the end of the book, so don't read it if you haven't read the book first. Sadly, the Collector's Edition doesn't seem to be available on Kindle so. Arrrr matey.

Download link for file at the end.

....

HENRY

“I am not asking you to believe in it, or even to like it,” Henry says stonily. It’s been a long morning already. He is beginning to perspire. “I am simply asking you to show a modicum of respect.”

“To–to your quiche?”

“Yes. To my quiche.”

Bea puts down her tape gun and wipes her eyes. “Pez!”

“Yes?”

“Henry says he’s going to make us a quiche!”

Pez’s squawk of a laugh bounces down the stairs. “Pull the other one!”

“I make them all the time for Alex,” Henry insists. “They are perfectly edible.”

“So, when you promised us breakfast if we got up early to help you.” Bea says, “you meant that you were going to make us breakfast?”

“Yes!” Henry says hotly. “Stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry!” Bea says. “It’s only that...well, Henry, the last time you cooked breakfast for me, you were twelve and you put a sausage in the microwave until it exploded.”

“That was your idea! And it’s been ages since then! I’ve studied, all right? I’m quite good now. Those pictures I send the group chat aren’t just for show.”

“Oh, aren’t they?” Bea says rudely, as if his incredibly generous offer to cook her a shallot-and-thyme quiche with mushrooms from the farmer’s market means nothing at all. As if he’s lived in this house for five entire years without learning to use its kitchen.

Perhaps if their lives weren’t so chaotic, if Henry weren’t flying out of New York every time Bea had a spare moment to fly in, he could have proven this to her earlier. But Pez, who lives mostly in the city now and visits so frequently he’s earned his own Secret Service code name (Cardinal, since Henry is Bishop), should know better.

“Percy Okonjo,” Henry says as Pez joins them, “you were here last weekend when I made mince pie. You loved it.”

“Did I?” Pez wonders aloud, with an annoyingly Bea-like lilt.

“Look at this apron!” Henry gestures to himself and the navy blue apron he’s wearing. Alex gave it to him for his birthday last year. “Would a man who can’t make a quiche have an apron like this? It’s monogrammed.”

“You’re royalty, babes,” Pez points out. “Everything you own is monogrammed.”

From the pocket of his serious-home-cook apron, his phone buzzes. Reinforcements. The FaceTime connects, and Alex says, “Good morning, love of my li–”

“Alex,” Henry interrupts, “tell them about my quiches.”

Alex pushes up his sunglasses and frowns into the camera. He looks so lovely with his faded T-shirt and jean jacket and shaggy hair. Pure American heartthrob, might as well have a cowboy hat on. Henry never does tire of it.

“Sorry?”

“Bea and Pez don’t believe I can make a quiche.”

“What? Have they seen your apron?”

“That’s what I said!”

“Henry’s quiches are great!” Alex says loudly, to the kitchen at large. “I almost never find shells in them!”

That sets Bea and Pez off again. On the screen, Alex’s face crinkles into laughter.

“Thank you very much, Alex, you’ve been a tremendous help,” Henry groans. “How are things? Florist this morning, wasn’t it?”

“Just finishing up.” Alex says with a grin. “Final approvals done. Everything looks great.”

With only one week until moving day and two until the wedding, it made sense to divide and conquer. Henry agreed to stay in New York and finish packing up the brownstone with help from Bea and Pez, while Alex, June, and Nora are ticking off the last of their checklists in Texas.

“Of all the surprises that wedding planning has brought us,” Henry says, “your ability to micromanage floral arrangements has certainly been...one of them.”

“You know I love to curate a vibe,” Alex says.

“That you do,” Henry agrees. “Where are the girls?”

“Getting donuts,” Pez answers before Alex can. He holds up his phone, open to a photo of June blowing a kiss while Nora fellates an éclair.

“Donuts!” Bea says. “Now there’s an idea!”

They spend the rest of the day drowning in cardboard boxes and bin liners, packing everything but the furniture and the downstairs television. Pez reminds him once an hour that they could pay someone to do this, but Bea is stubborn, and Henry is reluctant to let anyone else wade into all the intimate trappings of his and Alex’s life. It was bad enough explaining the contents of the trick drawer in their dresser to Pez, much less some mover he’s never met.

When it’s done, Bea puts A Knight’s Tale on in the living room and promptly falls asleep on Pez’s lap. Pez passes out too, but Henry stays awake, because Heath Ledger deserves an audience. And because he knows if he doesn't wake Bea and move her to the guest bedroom, he'll have to hear about her back spasms in the morning.

David hops up beside him on the loveseat, and Henry strokes the top of his snout until his little body relaxes into Henry's side.

"Nervous old boy," Henry hums. It still does seem like the ultimate irony that the dog he adopted for emotional support has anxiety. David has grown more and more worried all week, as more and more of his home disappeared into boxes. "We won't leave you, I promise."

The brownstone has been a good house for them. Sturdy brick walls, neighbors that actually let them be. Henry has loved it more than he ever loved Kensington, or at least as much as he loved Kensington when his parents both lived there too. Some mornings, when he comes downstairs to find Alex with the coffeepot and the kettle already on, he feels the way he did when his family all slept under one roof. This roof is quite a bit smaller than that one, but the feeling isn't.

So, perhaps David hasn't got entirely the wrong idea. It is hard to let the place go. For the past month, Alex has kept asking Henry why he's staring, and the truth is that he's been committing to memory exactly how Alex looks in every room. How the bannister fits in his hand, the place on the foyer wall where he always braces himself to pull on his shoes.

Everything that's happened in the past five years has happened, at least in part, inside this house.

…

It's seven months after Alex's mother's second inauguration, and Henry is wishing he had never even heard the word "credenza." Then he wouldn't have to decide where to put one. Alex is arriving in half an hour to help him move it, but Henry still doesn't know where. Across from the fireplace, perhaps? But what if he wants to put a sofa there? Does he want a regular sofa, or a sectional? Should it go upstairs, in his study? Or should he leave room for bookcases?

He longs to be back on a beach, sipping something from a pineapple.

It’s been a long, glorious summer since Alex packed up his White House bedroom, called Henry, and asked, "Do you want to get the fuck off the continent?" They did Dubai first, then Lagos. Rio, for old time's sake. Buenos Aires, paper lanterns in moonlight and Alex flirting with the bartender for free drinks. June through August became a lovely blur: Alex asleep against his shoulder on the plane, Alex throwing his Portuguese phrase book out the window of a speeding car, sand in unmentionable places, Alex Alex Alex. Endless runways and half-arsed disguises, swimsuits that got smaller and smaller until they simply didn't wear them anymore. Falling in love, the sequel, with fresh suntans and all the time in the world.

And now here they are in Park Slope, where Alex is renting the second floor of a brownstone two blocks from Henry's.

It's practical, they agreed, to live in the same neighborhood before they live at the same address. They've scarcely gotten a chance to date the normal way yet– if it can be called "normal" when their combined security teams are headquartered in an empty apartment down the street. Still, Henry wants this to last.

They've sprinted headlong into everything so far, but now he wants move slowly, in delicious increments. He wants to savor nights, minutes, firsts, to covet them and then let them dissolve on his tongue, like the sugar cubes he snuck off his gran's filigreed tea trays when he was small. He wants a life.

He wants someone to tell him where to put this damned credenza.

It's a vintage Broyhill Brasilia piece, walnut with clever brass drawer pulls. June helped him pick it out when she was in town with meeting her editor, but she never gave him any advice on where it should go. He hasn't ever been allowed to decide where furniture should go before.

So, it’s...there, in the center of the empty living room, the first piece in the entire house.

“Maybe you could start with a rug or two,” says Alex from the foyer.

Henry turns to find him with his keys in one hand and a paper bag in the other, smiling in a beam of mid-morning light, and, ah. Yes. There it is. That sweet, sharp gasp of nerves. The half second when he forgets how to use his mouth. If he knows nothing else, at least one certainty remains, which is that seeing Alex Claremont-Diaz in the flesh will always do this to him.

Alex in a photo is handsome, but Alex in life is a symphony. He’s refracted light with a cherry cola chaser. He’s got a Fibonacci jawline and a troublemaker smile and thick forearms built for posing in doorways with his sleeves rolled and thumbing corks out of champagne bottles. The first time Henry ever told Pez about him, he said, “God, but he’s lethal.” It’s only worse once you get to know him.

“Weird place for a credenza,” Alex comments. He kisses Henry’s cheek, then passes him a warm bundle wrapped in parchment paper. “Hope you like sausage-egg-and-cheese.”

“I don’t know where to put it.”

“Sandwich goes in your mouth, typically.”

“The credenza.”

“Ohhh, right,” Alex says, pretending to have just caught on. He winks. Henry sighs theatrically but accepts a second kiss, on the lips this time. “Why don’t you just put it right here?”

He points to his left, where a blank wall stretches from the front door to the foot of the stairs. It does, upon closer inspection, appear to be the exact right size.

“Oh,” Henry says.

This is where they overlap. Where he ends and Alex begins. Great gooey puddle of feelings, meet course of action; endless burning energy, meet point of focus. Agonies, meet your most obvious, most natural, most inevitable conclusions. It’s frightening sometimes for a person like Henry, who has spent his entire life pedaling his agonies about like baguettes in a posh little bicycle basket. What is he to do with them now?

Yes," Henry concedes, "I suppose I could," and Alex laughs.

...

It's the summer of 2022. Henry has opened his third shelter, and Alex has just finished bulldozing his first year at NYU Law.

A few boxes of books still wait at Alex's place, but otherwise, he lives in Henry's brownstone now. Their brownstone. A UT pennant beside a Chelsea scarf on the living room wall. A fridge full of Topo Chico and Bulmers. Two pairs of shoes by the front door, brown Barker derbies and Reebok trainers. Nobody could mistake it for anyone else's.

It's their first Chore Sunday (Alex's idea), and Henry has put the last of the laundry in the dryer. He's in the kitchen doorway, watching Alex unload the dishwasher.

Alex once told Henry the type of man he's typically attracted to: tall, broad-shouldered, pretty eyes, a little haunted. Bit of attitude and a smile that makes you curious. For Henry, it's never been so simple. He liked boys in his classes because they bothered with the assigned readings and fancied one of Philip's awful Eton friends because he could sail and smelled of cinnamon. The only thing all his Oxford boys had in common was that they didn't know how to speak to him. He's never had a type, and he's always been sure Alex was singular, anyway. Alex is unlike anyone he's ever met before or since.

But here, now, watching Alex bend to remove a salad bowl from the bottom rack, he is confronted with the hard truth. All those boys did, actually, share one trait.

"Are you gonna help me with this," Alex says without even an investigatory glance over his shoulder, "or are you just gonna keep staring at my ass?"

...

It’s Christmas 2022, their first since Alex officially moved in, and Henry is going to make a yule log if it kills him.

Perhaps he’s been too ambitious. He’s rather new to all. Growing up, he was rarely permitted in the kitchens, and he concentrated his uni diet on fast food and takeaway. He can make toast and boil an egg, and he’s got a deft hand with the coffee percolator and a gin swizzle from time to time. He knows about food– the finest foods, actually, he’s yet to meet an Englishman who can select a better brie– but he never learned to cook, until recently.

Recently, as in when Alex became too fanatically involved in his second-year coursework to remember to feed himself.

It began with force-feeding Alex a bacon butty twice a week. Henry’s arms suffered little constellations of grease burns, but bacon was easy. And those faded, so they didn’t deter him for long. Curiosity piqued, he taught himself the basics of pasta, how one can simmer almost anything with garlic and onion and butter and it will taste good over noodles. It bolstered his confidence enough to truly commit, and now, between hours at the shelters and video calls with his mum, he watches tutorial after tutorial on how to brown butter and roast chicken. Only half of what he makes turns out the color it’s meant to, but he loves it.

He loves walking to the market on the corner and hunting down specific ingredients from the family recipes June sends him. In fact, it’s become such a regular pastime that the paparazzi have cottoned on, which is why his mother finally forced his security team to hire an actual body double. Now some bloke named Angus with his height and build and nearly the same face goes on diversionary strolls while Henry peruses jarred chilies.

With all his independent studying, he was certain he could manage a dessert. He wanted to do something impressive, since they’ve convinced their families to let them host Christmas dinner. Only, his sponge has gone all wrong, and if he’s learned anything from Bake Off, he knows it’s not meant to have cracked in five places when he tried to roll it up. Paul Hollywood would have him pilloried.

“Think you might’ve left it in too long?” Oscar asks from across the kitchen island. He’s wearing his white elephant prize, a sweatshirt airbrushed with the slogan YOU CAN’T SPELL CONSTITUTION WITHOUT TITS. Inexplicably, Henry’s own mother brought that one. “Lookin’ kinda dry there.”

“I appreciate that you are trying to be helpful,” Henry enunciates, “but if you say one more word I may start crying, and then we’ll both lose some respect for me.”

Later, when Pez has persuaded him to “call it, mate, put it out of its misery,” he carries his disgraced platter of ganache and cake and marzipan out into the living room and lets everyone go at it with spoons. The house feels full to bursting, and not just because of the Christmas crackers. There are all three of Alex’s parents, Henry’s mum, June and Nora, Bea and Pez, Shaan and Zahra on speakerphone, occasionally an awkward Philip and Martha via FaceTime, and, because he had nowhere else to go for the holiday, Angus.

(“I don’t like him,” Alex muttered when Henry suggested inviting his own body double to Christmas dinner.

“Why not?”

“Because he looks exactly like you, but I find him deeply unattractive, and that freaks me out.”)

Ellen tells everyone the story of the year Alex got his first real bike for Christmas and knocked out his two front teeth by Boxing Day, which prompts Catherine to recite eight-year-old Henry’s letter to Father Christmas, in which he requested a leather-bound journal and a holiday to East Wittering so he could gaze at the sea. Bea pushes Henry behind the upright piano, and he takes requests for an hour. It only ends when Pez rewrites half the lyrics to “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” to be about his own lactose intolerance. No one wants to follow “tidings of Lactaid and soy.”

After the third round of mulled wine, when Alex’s parents have called their drivers and his mum has retired to the guest room, June and Nora find themselves under the mistletoe. Everyone whoops and whistles until Nora finally pulls June in by her Christmas-light necklace and kisses her to a round of applause. June's cheeks turn red, but she looks pleased as anything.

"I can't believe it took this long for y'all to finally kiss." Alex says, to which Pez bursts into laughter. "What?"

"Alex," he says fondly. He drains his glass and pecks Alex on the forehead. "You gorgeous, stupid little turnip."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Pez just shakes his head and strolls off to the kitchen.

"Wait," Alex says.

He frowns, like he does when he's trying to recall something incredibly minute and specific from his torts textbook. Then, suddenly, a light goes on, and his own mug is clunking on the lamp table, and he's running off after Pez.

"Pez, what's that supposed to mean?"

...

It's late morning the summer before Alex's last year of law school, 2023, and Alex is the first word out of Henry's mouth.

Truthfully, that's how he begins most mornings. On a Monday morning five time zones away, "Alex" pitched low to the screen of his phone. On a Friday when Alex's early lecture is cancelled, "Alex" in F major, muffled in the pillow as his body moves and the day stretches out before them. Half three the night before an exam, a hoarse "Alex," followed by, "turn the bloody light off and come to bed."

This morning, it's because David is barking at the door. A rainstorm is brewing, and if jet lag didn't have Henry dead under the bedclothes, the gray gloom would. Alex was the one who surfaced from sleep half an hour ago and blearily ordered three entire pancake breakfasts from some 24-hour diner a few neighborhoods over. He should have to get up and answer the door.

“Alex.” Henry mumbles, turning over.

Alex has got the quilt tugged up so high he’s only a shock of wild curls on white linens.

“Nnnghh,” Alex groans from the depths.

“Breakfast is here,” Henry says. The doorbell helpfully rings again. David howls.

Alex’s face appears, pouting. There’s a crease from the pillow down one of his cheekbones, a comet’s tail in a constellation of freckles. “Can you get it?”

Henry rolls his eyes but smiles. Inevitable.

He drags himself out of bed and pulls on the joggers and hoodie from last night’s flight. It’s not until he feels the breeze on his ankles as he descends the stairs that he realizes they’re Alex’s, not his.

On their doorstep, a pink-haired delivery girl is looking bored under her bicycle helmet.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Henry says. He fishes a crumpled bill out of Alex’s pocket. “For your trouble.”

The girl pulls a face.

“Got any real money?” she asks. Her accent reminds him a bit of Alex’s mum.

He blinks down at her hand, which is holding a twenty-pound note. “Ah. Sorry again. Er.” He snatches his wallet out of the bowl on the credenza and gives her all the American dollars he has.

“She’s gone, Davey,” Henry says afterward to David, who’s now fretfully circling the living room. “You’ve protected us from another fearsome home invader. Well done.”

He lets David out into the back garden to do his business, then carries the food upstairs. Shockingly, Alex is awake and propped up against the headboard.

“I’m getting too old for red-eye flights,” Alex says, rubbing his eyes.

“Love, you’re twenty-five,” Henry reminds him. He deposits the bag on the nightstand, and Alex wastes no time tearing through the plastic and tucking in to his breakfast. “And I’m older than you.”

“Yes, you are. But like... I get why we have to go to Philip’s kids’ christenings. The cousins, though?” He sets to work smothering his pancakes in syrup. “I mean, at least my cousins would stack their baptisms. One and done, baby.”

Henry opens his mouth, prepared to answer with one of a thousand things. That the tabloids will have even more of a field day than usual if he stops doing his chores, that there will always be a church dedication or a swan upping or an appointment for a top hat fitting, that he’ll always be obligated to have one foot in London and one day they’ll have to choose where to settle down. It’s far from the first time they’ve had this conversation.

But then Alex shovels a massive bite of pancakes into his mouth and says, “Anyway, I love you. Do you wanna have June and Nora over tomorrow? We can play Mario Party again. I wanna see them get in a fistfight. Oh, and my dad’s in town next week, and he said to tell you he’s bringing that book you asked about–”

And that’s when Henry knows: He doesn’t ever want to go back.

...

It’s the end of spring 2024, and Henry is not eavesdropping, per se. He excused himself to answer a call from Shaan, which really could not be avoided. Shaan has taken to his new life as a househusband with predictable aplomb, and most of his calls these days involve Henry getting to talk to a baby who is clearly destined to become prime minister. He simply can’t send that to voicemail.

It’s the first time they’ve had room in the schedule for his mother to visit since Alex accepted his law job, which Henry understands very little about but has been assured is the most strategic next step for Alex’s career long game. When Henry left the room, Alex was still trying to explain it to Catherine. It all sounds terribly prestigious.

He is just returning to the sitting room with a fresh pot of tea when he hears his name from around the corner.

“–and the next morning Henry and Arthur vanished,” his mother is saying, “and when Uncle Algie called, I told him that Henry couldn’t go on the annual pheasant hunt because he was violently ill, but actually Arthur had taken him to Rome for two weeks on the set of that go on ridiculous car heist film he was working on, the one with, oh, what’s his name–“

“Jason Statham,” Alex says promptly, through wheezing laughter.

“That’s the one!”

“Loved that movie,” Alex says. “I can’t believe Henry got to be on set.”

“It was all Arthur’s idea, but he was right to do it. Uncle Algie is a dreadful bore, and Henry despises his son. Guilford. Did you meet Guilford at the wedding?”

“Henry made sure I avoided it.”

“Yes, that’s for the best,” Catherine says daintily. “He has matured into an absolute dickhead.”

Henry wishes he was in the room to see the way Alex sputters out, “Oh my God.” Alex always forgets that Catherine went to uni and married a commoner from Sheffield.

And then Alex sighs and says, “When Henry and I get married–”

Henry manages to recover the teapot before he drops it.

It’s not a surprise to hear Alex mention marriage. They’ve been sorting it out for years: political logistics and Alex’s child-of-divorce anxiety and a thousand questions about a royal wedding neither of them actually wants to have. He’s already bought an engagement ring, even, and judging by how tetchy Alex gets whenever Henry tries to put his underwear away for him, he’s not the only one.

But it is the first time he’s heard Alex mention it to his mother. He dropped it so casually, so matter-of-factly, as if he’s been talking to her about marrying Henry for years. Henry supposes it’s possible he has been. Is this why Alex had tea with her in London last month and told Henry he wasn’t invited? Have they been conspiring?

They’re discussing hypothetical guest lists now, which cousins secretly hate one another and who wore an inappropriately large fascinator to whose birthday tea, but Henry isn’t listening anymore. He’s thinking of a cafe table in Rome, his dad waving over a second round of gelato.

In his memory, he’s nine years old, and his father is saying, Whoever you marry, Henry, make sure they think your mum is a laugh, because she is. She really is.

He clears his throat and finally rounds the corner. “Tea, anyone?”

...

It’s 2024, and nobody knows they’re engaged.

Granted, they’ve only been engaged for about three hours, but Henry is curious to see how long they can go. It feels nice to keep a secret that doesn’t have to be a secret. It’s more that they’re keeping it like a pet, or something especially beautiful from the garden that they’ve coaxed into a jar.

A record is spinning on the turntable, one of Alex’s, maybe the Joni Mitchell he borrowed from Bea. They’ve shoved their phones under the couch cushions and ordered a pizza the size of the moon, and now they’re sitting in the center of the living room floor, demolishing it. They kiss, then eat more pizza, then get distracted kissing again. Henry licks a streak of pepperoni grease from Alex’s forearm, which is a fantasy he didn’t know he had until he’s living it. They tangle up on the rug, and Henry decides he’ll take Alex sailing next weekend, or even out to the edge of the river, just to see him against a horizon.

Four-nearly-five years in, the main thing he’s learned is that Alex is a world without end. All Henry wants is to go on with him forever. To keep finding new favorite parts, to keep turning things over and studying their soft bellies and finding the best bits.

So, he will.

...

It snows on New Year’s Eve 2024. Alex looks out the window and shrugs off his coat.

The Young America Gala may be no longer, but Nora, June, and Pez aren’t to be stopped from throwing a New Year’s party, especially now that Pez has gotten his own part-time flat in the city. They’re the three fates of New York City’s holiday social circuit: birth (June, managing invitations), life (Pez, topless), and death (Nora, also topless).

“What if,” Alex says, turning to Henry on the foot of the stairs, “we don’t go to the party?”

“Nora will murder me,” Henry says. “She told me she’s not afraid to do that now that I’ve given up my title.”

“Murder is still a crime even if you’re not officially a prince.”

“Yes, but she said, quote,” he puts on his best American accent, “They can’t put me in the Tower anymore. Who’s gonna arrest me now? Mr. Bean?”

“Why don’t we just send Angus? It’s dark. Maybe she won’t notice.”

“Where’s your double, then?”

“We live in New York, I’m sure I can find a male model somewhere.”

“As always, sounding the very bass string of humility.”

“Is that fucking Shakespeare?”

“Henry IV.”

“I’m gonna give you a wedgie, you fucking nerd.”

In the end, it doesn’t take much to convince Henry to stay in. Lately, it never does. Alex texts June a flimsy excuse, and they toe off their shoes and relax out of their button-downs.

Henry does have to admit he’s exhausted, in the way that one only can be on the last day of the year, when every other day of the year piles way up behind it. It’s been a big one: Alex’s first law job, the endless press about Henry’s decision to surrender his title, the engagement, Bea’s wedding, the incident with the croquet mallets and the Dutch ambassador at Bea's wedding.

Sometimes Alex jokes that they squeezed it all into one calendar year because no headline can stick if there's another next week, but it's only half a joke. They've been bone-tired for months.

"I'm surprised you're the one who wants to stay home," Henry says. "I remember a young lothario who lived to ruin people's lives on New Year's Eve."

"Ruin?" Alex says. "That's not how I remember it."

"It certainly felt that way at the time."

They drift to the kitchen, past all the traces of the year. The dried flowers, the new scuffs on the floorboards. The box of bound manuscripts of Henry's first finished poetry-ish short-fiction-ish essay-ish collection. The holiday cards from senators and diplomats and old Texas friends, topped off with Alex's favorite of Rafael Luna and his astonishingly fit partner in matching Christmas jumpers. Henry would think Raf had been forced into it if it hadn't come with a case of beer and a note of thanks for letting him stay over the last time he visited Alex and had one too many tequila shots at drag bingo.

Alex withdraws a bottle of Clicquot from the refrigerator and says, "We're not washed, are we?"

“We're aging," Henry points out.

"That's right," Alex says, eyes immediately sparking at the opportunity. Henry preemptively sighs. "You're almost thirty."

"Almost twenty-eight is not almost thirty."

"It basically is. You're old. You'll be thirty a whole year before me. You'll be popping antacids and I'll be in the club, popping my p-"

"You're not even in the club now."

"I could be, I'm just choosing not to, because I don't want to deal with the snow. That's not aging, it's growth."

He slides Henry a glass of champagne and adds, "It's probably time for us to start talking about what's on your Do Before Thirty list, huh?"

Henry takes the glass and chooses going with Alex's bit over pointing out that he's entering his late twenties, not dying.

“I’ve done quite well on that front so far, actually,” he says. “Wrote a book. Started a nonprofit. Engaged to the love of my life.”

“Involved in an international sex scandal.”

“Shook the hands of all five Spice Girls.”

“Best dressed at the Met Gala.”

“Cried in the Water Lilies room at the MOMA.”

“Grew your hair out, then cut it all off.“

“Taught myself to make beef Wellington.”

“That one’s, uh, still in progress,” Alex hedges. Henry gives him an affronted look. “But, yeah! Definitely. And you got really good at scones.”

“That I did.”

“Right,” Alex agrees. “So what’s left? Streaking? Dropping acid? Having sex on our kitchen island?”

Henry takes a moment with that one.

“Having sex on our kitchen island?”

When the clock strikes the new year, the house is quiet. The timer on the light over the front stoop clicks off. The champagne bottle rests between two glasses on the edge of the sink, spent and sticky around the rim, a single soggy strawberry at the bottom of each flute. Miles out from their apartment, fireworks fight the snow over the East River, but in their kitchen in Park Slope, the only sounds are the two of them.

Henry, almost twenty-eight, presses his warm body to the cool marble and gets his midnight kiss.

...

“Do you know what today is?” Alex asks on a lukewarm September.

It’s 2025. He’s in the doorway of Henry’s study, where Henry has been all evening, answering emails.

“Hm? No.”

When Alex doesn’t immediately fill the silence, Henry looks up from his laptop screen.

“What is it?”

“Five years since the story broke,” Alex says.

It takes a moment for him to realize what story Alex means; there have been so many of them. But of course, he means that gigantic, terrible one. The one that changed their lives forever.

“Oh,” Henry says. He closes his laptop, leaning back in his chair and away from it. “Well. Hated that.”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. “Zero out of ten. Would not do again.”

His tone is light and casual, but when he folds his arms across his chest, Henry can see his glasses in the front pocket of his flannel. It’s been months and months since the last time Alex didn’t feel confident enough to wear them.

For his part, Henry can remember much of that day, but not all of it. He remembers stirring sugar into his morning tea when Shaan walked in wearing an expression Henry had never seen before. He remembers Pez arriving like the cavalry in Gucci slippers, hustling Henry away from his handlers with the same graceful disdain he used to direct at Eton classmates who stared at them too much. He remembers Bea finding them in the music parlor and refusing to hear Henry’s apology, and he remembers Alex’s call and Alex’s arrival.

The funny part, though, is he can’t remember anything between Bea and Alex. He knows that Philip was involved, and there were stories on every news channel, and he spoke to his mother at some point. But the space in his memory where those hours belong is simply blank. His psychiatrist says it’s post-traumatic stress disorder, and Henry is inclined to agree, considering the two of them spent the entire following year recalibrating Henry’s anxiety and depression medication around the event.

Those hours will always be gone. There are things he will never get back.

Most of the time, though, when he thinks of that day, the second worst thing that's ever happened to him, he thinks of Alex's hand in his under a Buckingham Palace table. He remembers, clear as a bell, Alex's voice telling him they would survive it together. It happened to Alex too. It wasn't what they would have chosen, but it was what they received, and they've done their absolute bloody best with it.

He rises from his desk, crosses to the doorway, and gathers Alex up against his chest. Their size difference isn't that pronounced—Henry is taller but lean, Alex shorter but sturdy—but in moments like this, he's thankful for the way Alex's cheek perfectly aligns with the crook of his neck. He's grateful for how effortless it is to slip a kiss to Alex's temple.

Neither of them says anything else. It's all been said a thousand times, in speeches and through official statements and in the dark when it's only the two of them. It's enough to stand here in the center of the house, in the quiet, and let it hold their weight.

...

At the end of 2025, Henry has a bad day.

There's nothing specific that causes it. The days just happen like this sometimes, even with all the therapy and medication and supportive partnership and fulfilling creative projects in the world. There are other people, he supposes, who don't spend their lives waiting for the next bad day. He's had every bloody luxury but that one.

Alex comes home from work to find him curled up on the armchair in the study, staring out the window at the light-polluted night sky over the row of brownstones across the street.

“What are you doing?" Alex asks him.

"Looking for Orion," Henry deadpans.

Alex kneels on the rug in his tailored suit pants and rolled-up sleeves and rests his cheek on Henry's knee, the way he often does when Henry's in a mood. Henry's fingers slide into his curls. They've grown a bit longer in the past few months. Lately. Alex looks quite like he did when they met, except for the glasses and the stubble dusting his jaw.

“I’m tired of big law, “ Alex confesses. It would appear he’s in a mood too. “I know it’s only been a year and a half, but...I kind of hate it.”

Henry contemplates that, along with the dark circles around Alex’s eyes.

“You don’t have to do it, you know.” Henry tells him.

Alex looks at him like he did in that hotel room in Paris the first time they woke up together, like the only thing he knows for sure about what he’s being offered is that he wants it completely. It’s an intimidating look to receive, but it’s only ever improved Henry’s life in the end.

He kisses Henry’s knuckle, just below his ring.

“I have some ideas.”

...

In February 2026, a flu sweeps through Park Slope. Neither Alex nor Henry can agree on who gave it to whom first– Henry knows it was Alex, since he’s been up late consulting with his mum about a voting rights bill in Texas, and his immune system always suffers when he gets upset about Texas—but regardless, they’re trapped in the brownstone together for a week. At least Alex doesn’t have to work through his illness the way he usually does, since he resigned from his job last month.

Somewhere around day five, Henry realizes it’s the longest consecutive amount of time they’ve both been home in years. They always seem to be leaving or returning: rushing off to appearances, climbing out of security caravans in half-undone suits, meeting Cash at the curb at three in the morning with bags over their shoulders. It’s nice, in a way, to get reacquainted with this home they’ve built together.

While Alex naps, Henry paces the entire floorplan.

The first floor, with its long living room and the original beams and mantelpiece, which Henry had restored before he moved in, because he always has been precious about the history of things. Then the kitchen and the deep blue cabinets and the wide back window over the knotty pine dining table handed down from Alex's dad. Upstairs, on the second floor, the guest bedroom with all of his mum's preferred hand creams in the attached washroom and the sitting room with the shelf of swan figurines Pez started collecting years ago in a dramatic fit of June-related yearning. One more flight up to the top floor, with his study and Alex's office and the hall with their photo from Shaan and Zahra's wedding and, at the far end, their bedroom.

The bedroom is his favorite part of the house, and not only for the obvious reasons, no matter how much Alex tries to imply otherwise with suggestive eyebrows. He loves the high ceiling and the chipped plaster medallion of roses at the center. They picked out the bed together, and every morning that he wakes up in it, he gets to turn over and see Alex's loose pens and glasses wipes scattered atop the dresser and know that this, his life, is still real. Perhaps he likes the room best because it feels separated from every other part of the house, lifted up and bundled in, which is the first time he's ever been safe in a tower.

Most importantly, of all three levels of bay windows jutting from the redbrick front of the brownstone, only the one in the bedroom has a seat. They've filled it with velvet pillows and mossy green cushions, and once or twice a year, on one of their vanishingly rare slow days, Alex will climb in and fall asleep.

That's where he finds Alex when he eases into the room with a mug of soup in each hand. He recognizes the quilt wrapped around him: they slept under it in Alex's childhood twin bed the night Ellen won her second term, and then Alex crammed it into his suitcase and brought it back to Washington.

He stirs as Henry sets the mugs down on the dresser.

“Thanks,” he says in a hoarse voice.

Henry nudges in beside him, gingerly removing Alex's glasses from beneath his elbow before they get crushed.

"You know," Henry says, "I chose this house for the bay windows."

Alex blinks at him, fully awake now. "Really?"

"I thought you might like them. You always talked about the one you grew up with. Hoped they might make the place feel like home."

Alex smiles. "They do."

Henry looks at him in his quilt, sleep-mussed and flushed from fever and overdue for a shave, and he remembers that night in the yellow house in Austin. Before Alex led them back to his old bedroom, he peeled up the cushion in the living room window seat and showed Henry pages of elementary school scribbles still hidden there. And he told Henry that he thought once of hiding a picture there too, if only he'd had the nerve to tear it out of his sister's magazine.

Love, Henry has found, has a way of growing backward. You fall in love with a person in the present, and then every person you've ever been gets to fall in love with every past version of them. A sleep-deprived Georgetown freshman falls in love with an Oxford sophomore who's testing out undoing the top button of his shirts sometimes. A ruddy-cheeked teenager with his nose in a book loves a backtalking lacrosse captain. A boy comes home from school with perfect marks and sees a picture in a magazine, and the boy from the picture pauses on a palace staircase.

The crux of it is, he loves every version of Alex to ever sleep under that quilt. Everything else is mostly set dressing

"I'm having a thought," Henry says.

"Congratulations," Alex deadpans automatically. Then, "Tell me."

"This life we have here," Henry says. "This house. It's good, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course it is."

"But we could have a good life somewhere else too."

Alex frowns. "Like where?"

"Somewhere... farther from everything, maybe? Somewhere we could slow down, and things could be quieter, and you could do the work you want to do. I think I could use some time away from it all, honestly. Maybe I wouldn't even have to have a body double anymore."

Alex considers that for a long moment. They both know where Henry means, even if he doesn't say it. Besides New York and DC, and London on its best days, there's really only one place Alex would seriously consider living. They've joked about it before, but Henry's always thought it might be nice to spend a few years somewhere completely different than he's used to. A place where he could see the stars.

At long last, Alex sniffs and says, "You're gonna fire Angus? He was just starting to grow on me.”

...

“If you don't wake Bea up, you're gonna have to hear about her back spasms in the morning,” says a voice that is most certainly not Heath Ledger's.

Henry startles awake to find Alex leaning over his shoulder from behind the loveseat, curls everywhere. The room is dark, and the end credits are rolling.

"You're not home until tomorrow," Henry mumbles.

"Moved up my flight," Alex says. He's so close to Henry's face, he's gone a bit cross-eyed. His lips bounce off the tip of Henry's nose. "I missed you."

It's only been a few days, but the truth is Henry missed him too. He supposes he should be used to empty beds and time differences by now, especially when they began that way, but he suspects he'll never stop waiting at the door. You know what will be the best part of getting married?" Henry asks Alex.

"The line dancing."

"The way I won't have to miss you nearly as often."

Alex softens, then maneuvers himself over the armrest until he's draped across Henry's lap. David climbs on top of him and curls up on Alex's left buttock.

Letting go of the house has been hard, but this particular decision was easy, once they finally said it out loud. A gradual, careful withdrawal from public life, at least for a few years. They’ve given so much of themselves to the world and had the privilege of feeling a legacy take shape beneath them, but they need rest too.

It was June who convinced them, actually. Even now, there are certain things only June can say to Alex. Early in the spring, when she was finally transitioning out of her speechwriting job for Raf, she called Alex from Colorado and told him she was moving to New York to be closer to Nora and Pez, and she wanted to sublet the brownstone. When Alex pointed out that he was still living in it, she said, "We both know you've been looking at farmhouses in Austin for six months, it's time to shit or get off the pot."

(Henry loves his particular collection of Americans. They truly do say what's on their minds.)

The new house is beautiful. Henry's only seen it in person once, but the previous owner was a reclusive tech executive with shockingly good taste, so Architectural Digest featured it last year. He's had the article open in a tab on his phone for two months, and he scrolls through all those perfectly lit photos twice a day, getting high on possibilities. Lazy mornings in the wide sunroom, midnight dives in the lake. It's easy to imagine Alex mellowing into a brisket-smoking, tamale-rolling Texas dad out there, and it's just as easy to imagine them basking under cedar trees until their mid-thirties and then deciding they're ready for another round. The wonderful thing is, they can take their time either way.

It isn't a full release from their obligations, but it is the next step after formally relinquishing his title. More boundaries, more of their own rules about what they will and won't do. No royal wedding, but a private ceremony at the lake house and a honeymoon unpacking boxes. A job for Alex at a smaller firm where he can finally get his hands in the earth. A quieter life.

"You're right," Alex says. "You know what else is gonna be awesome about married-people life? We can have actual, real-life date nights. Just imagine it: free refills and bottomless chips and salsa."

"Oh, I've got another one," Henry says. “You can finally show me how to navigate an H-E-B."

“Baby, don’t talk dirty to me in front of company.”

“Please,” says a groggy voice from the couch.

“Hi, Bea.”

“Time’s it?”

“One in the morning.”

“Ugh.”

Grumbling and tugging a blanket around herself, Bea wakes Pez and the two of them head off to wash up before bed. The odds of Pez returning to the couch for the night or availing himself of their bed so that Alex has to sleep on the couch are just about even, based on six years of Pez falling asleep at their house. It’s a comfort to know that when they leave the brownstone and June moves in, Pez will still be making himself at home in it.

Downstairs, surrounded by boxes, Alex crawls out of Henry’s lap and slides a large shopping bag out from behind the loveseat. “I brought you something.” Alex says.

Inside the bag is a box made of the sort of heavy cardboard that augurs something expensive. He imagines Alex hurling his patched-up rough-ridden leather duffle into the overhead compartment of the airplane and then sliding this bag under the seat so carefully that there’s not even a crease in the paper.

He takes the lid off the box and unwraps layers of tissue paper to reveal a hat. A cowboy hat. It’s made of gorgeous, thick felt, with a cattleman crown and a satin lining. A nearly identical one has hung in Alex’s office since he moved in, though Alex’s is midnight black and this one is a warm, pale sand. Where Alex’s hatband has a small gold buckle, this one has a silver pin in the shape of an English rose.

“It’s a Stetson,” Alex says. When Henry looks up at him, his cheeks have darkened faintly. “I know it’s not really your thing, but you ride horses, and it’s kind of a big deal where I’m from to get your first Stetson, so I wanted to be the one to give it to you since you’re about to be an honorary Texan. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want–“

“I love it,” Henry interrupts.

Alex pauses, then breaks out in a grin. “You do? I was afraid you’d think it was a joke.”

“It’s the least ridiculous hat I’ve ever been given,” Henry tells him. “It didn’t even come with a matching tailcoat.”

“Nah, but maybe we can get you some Wranglers,” Alex says.

“Some chaps, perhaps.”

“I just told you not to talk dirty to me.”

Henry laughs and kisses him over the open box, thinking of the next year of their lives. Sunday morning fry-ups, swimming holes, a wedding cake that doesn’t wind up on the floor. Tomorrow he needs to ask if Alex checked on the bakery while he was in Austin, and if they have any more packing tape, and whether Amy’s daughter has gotten her flower girl dress yet.

Tonight, though, Alex is home a day early, and the house is making all its soft, familiar night-time sounds around them. No one sees in through the windows. No one comes in through the gate.

“Henry,” says Alex.

“Alex,” says Henry.

“You and me,” Alex says.

“You and me,” Henry agrees.

End.

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[mass-panicking]

no caller id

omg hi! this is like my first work on here and if u read it I hope u like it!! its inspired by the song no caller id by megan moroney bc I keep hearing on the radio and I just had to write smth abt it

and also thank u to my friend @kestrel-wish for helping me edit this shit they're so great

okay enough yapping bye and i hope u enjoy reading!!

wc: 483

You were a few months deep into therapy, a last resort to finally get your ex out, and get him to stay out, of your head. You were doing well enough by now that your friends weren’t by your side most days as you cried over the man who broke your heart over and over, even well enough to be able to block out those memories of him sometimes. The keyword being sometimes.

Around 3 am some nights your phone rings, it used to be more frequent, at least a few times a month, a very obviously drunk, deep voice giving you a half-assed “sorry, how you been?”, trying to get his way with you once again, it was like every time you finally started to move on he found his way back around you.

You’d gotten word that Simon was back in town, all that was left was waiting for your phone to go off and wake you up, and here it was. Picking up your phone from your nightstand and looking at the familiar string of numbers, the phone number you've seen so many times over months between breakups and deployments, it never had a name attached in those moments but you knew those digits like the back of your hand.

Squinting at the numbers on the too-bright phone screen made the emotions in your mind swirl, taunting you, daring you to answer his call. You didn't even need a name to know it was Simon, you're sure he expects that you'll pick up like you always did, but this time it was different, you’ve changed, you'd gotten better and you weren't going to let him break your heart once again; like he's already done so many times before.

You wondered if he would’ve gotten tired of hurting you by now, just like how you were tired of hurting yourself over him. The usual thoughts started to circle in your mind,“Why does he do this to me?”, “does he just hate losing?” . You wondered if Simon had ever thought of how badly he wounded you whenever he would call or if he still hadn’t even changed and every chime of your phone made you want to pick up and see if he would say something different for once, even if you knew he wouldn’t.

Even though all you wanted was to answer all you did this time was stare blankly into your phone screen, no matter how hard those instantly recognizable numbers made you want to answer. You just let the melody of your ringtone slip into silence while the caller display faded to black, laying underneath the warm fabric of your duvet, doing your best at trying to keep yourself from breaking down until he would inevitably try to call and get you on the line again just for you to ignore it once more, leaving it to ring.

[stickandthorn]

The thing about Imogen and Laudna’s relationship is that I want to like it so bad. Not just because it’s a very important relationship for two PCs that takes up a lot of runtime, but because there are a lot of elements that could be explored in the relationship that I really like the idea of. For instance, how do you navigate a close relationship with someone who can look into your mind? What kind of trust does that necessitate you build, what kind of boundaries do you have to set and how, and what happens if those boundaries are crossed? Is that imbalance in the relationship uncomfortable for Laudna? For Imogen? How would the circlet have changed this theoretical conflict?

But then those elements just… don’t get explored. Nothing gets explored. The relationship is stagnant, nothing ever changes, and the few conflicts that can’t be avoided get smoothed over without actual resolution so that they can go back to the place they started from all the way in episode 1. And there’s nothing to imply that the reason they’re so conflict free is that they worked out the biggest bumps in their dynamic before the stream, they’ve already communicated a lot and set up the most comfortable form of their relationship, and now it’s mostly smooth sailing (and even then, even the longest and best relationships still have conflicts you need to work through). No, everything signals that they’ve just avoid anything that could possibly cause conflict for years. Conflict or some other interruption of the status quo is how things change, and that’s how people grow, but they avoid any break in the status quo at all costs.

And because they avoid conflicts, they never grow in the relationship, they never explore, they never change it, nothing changes. And because the relationship is so important to both characters, because it takes up so much of their time in general and on screen, it feels like it also keeps Imogen and Laudna from growing individually. Both of them, but especially Laudna, had amazing arcs and great growth when they were separated from each other. Way more than when they were together. And even that feels like it’s getting pushed under the rug again, they’re reverting back to episode 1 status quo Laudna and Imogen.

And the worst part is that every time there’s been conflict in the relationship I’ve loved it. The gnarlrock thing, Laudna expressing her frustration at the other half of the party, those were really really good moments. I genuinely loved their dynamic in those moments, I want more of the relationship those moments imply. But they’re few and far between, and when they happen, the two back away from the issue and revert back to the status quo.

And I don’t think this is bad characterization, I think it makes sense for them, and I’ve made posts before about why I think their relationship is that way. But it is so constant, so unchanging, that it just gets tiring to watch. Especially when no other character ever acknowledges this part of their relationship, they all encourage it. Like, the kiss was cute for sure, but what did it do in their relationship? Nothing. If you removed the kiss there would be no discernible before and after.

I don’t begrudge anyone liking the relationship, if you do that’s great. I do genuinely mean that, I am glad that you like their relationship, I really wish I did. I want to like it so bad. But I just don’t. I’m tired of it. I wish the stuff I liked in the potential of their relationship would ever get brought up. If things do change for them, I will be so excited, but based on how it’s been going, they don’t seem like they will anytime soon. This is very lightly edited and way longer than I meant it to be, but the point is that god I wish I loved them, but god I really really don’t.

[crescencestudio]

๋࣭⭑ Devlog #39 | 3.27.24 ๋࣭⭑

Happy March!!

This devlog is going to be a bit shorter, but...... it's for Exciting Reasons that I will share later in the post. heh.....heh.....HEH.....

Let's jump in ^^

This month, writing was mostly dedicated to Etza's route! We have officially entered the Developmental Editing part of Etza's route, which is super exciting!!!

There were parts of Etza's route I wasn't completely satisfied with, so I spent a lot of this month tinkering, adding, fleshing out, editing, etc. for their route. I'm happier with it now compared to where it was when we entered this month, and especially with Wudgey's help, I'm excited for Etza to get the love they deserve!

I had a small, optional goal for myself to start Kuna'a's route, but honestly, I felt like between work with the Enhanced Demo, Etza's edits, and just generally feeling a bit tired after being Super Productive in January and February, I decided to give myself a break. That being said, I'm relatively confident I'll be getting started with Kuna'a's route next month, and I'm excited to dive into their route (and the Fae routes in general, teehee!).

Vui is on the very last of the BGs I need from him..... So I am in mourning.......

Kidding but not kidding. Vui has done an amazing job of putting the backgrounds for Alaris together! They're absolutely stunning, and by the time we get to the next devlog, he will have finished ALL of the BGs for Alaris! It's been about a year and a half in the making, which is kinda crazy to think we have been together for this long (and working on the full game for this long), but it's definitely A Moment.

In celebration of him reaching this milestone, I wanted to highlight some of the BGs he's made for the game! The theme is early morning; some of these BGs are in the demo, and some are in the full game hehe. You'll have to guess the context of the mysterious full game BGs :')

Sneak Peek: BG Showcase, morning strolls around the world of Alaris

I also thought it's been a while since I showcased a CG here. While I don't play on showcasing many of the full game CGs on public devlogs (I do show them on my Patreon!), I wanted to show a little snippet of this specific CG.

Why, you ask? Well, for the OGs, you might remember I showed a sketch of the CG during the Alaris Kickstarter---whenever the hell THAT THING happened.

I finished rendering it now that I got the BG for it, so I wanted to show a peek of that sketch that I showed oh-so-many-years ago.

Sneak Peek: Kayn Full Route CG I want to lick him

Generally for art progress, I've been working on CGs as well as some promotional materials, which I'll be getting to in the next section \o/

Now for the Exciting News!!!!

I have two bits of exciting news. The first is...

Sneak Peek: Selection Screen for Alpha/Beta Access (OUUUUGGGGGHHHHH)

I STARTED CODING KAYN'S ROUTE!!!! The first act is already "done" and ready for beta access. And I'm hoping to finish the other two acts within the next couple of weeks. It is crazy to finally be able to code some of the full game routes. Even if they're not at the "final version" or early access stage, it is Extremely Rewarding to finally experience the scripts I've been writing in the game!!! With the CGs.... Extended Screens..... Just seeing the script with visual assets and not just a Google Doc is SOOOOO FSEIKLFJSEILE

Sneak Peek: Chapter Character Cards (AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA)

The second piece of Exciting News is that I have a release date for the Enhanced Demo. YEEEEAAAAAA. It's finally happening!!! Please stay tuned over the next couple of days...... An Exciting Announcement is on its way...................................

I didn't do much market research this month. If I'm being honest, I actually struggled a little bit this month with like...... burnout and workaholism guilt. I wanted to take a break after getting the demo ready for public release, but I just couldn't bring myself to fully rest. It felt like there was so much to do (not just with Alaris, but also with real world/work obligations) and all these looming deadlines was starting to get to me.

I'm hoping next month because I'll actually be Releasing the demo (oops, sneak peek of general release date teehee!), I'll be able to feel like I can take a break. But it also sucks a bit that I feel like I have to Earn It. I think with Alaris being a Kickstarter project, I want to get the game in your hands as soon as possible, but of course it's not to anyone's benefit if I burn myself out in the process and end up with either a worser project or taking even longer to finish it.

I did...... start Stardew Valley again since it is the ultimate dissociation/break game for me. So far it's been working! But we'll see how it continues <3

LOOK AT MY FARM!!!

Should I marry Sebastian or Elliot.

Anyways, hope you all have a great rest of your month, and I'll talk to you Very Soon with an Exciting Announcement! <3

[thegeminisage]

star trek update time. monday we watched ds9's "in purgatory's shadow" (ohio edition), "by inferno's light" (ohio edition), and "doctor bashir, i presume" (ohio edition), which did blow my tits clean off, and then last night we watched voy's "unity" and "darkling" (south carolina editions, sadly).

in purgatory's shadow (ds9) (ohio edition):

kira and odo's little moment at the beginning of this episode 🥺 he was soooo embarrassed to be caught attempting to try and learn how to snag a spouse but she didn't judge even a little. girl, break up with your stupid ass boyfriend. odo is right here

i really loved bashir pointing the phaser at garak when he figured garak was lying. i was like oh damn he knows him so well and i love when this twink has had enough and becomes a little evil BUT THEN IT LITERALLY WASN'T HIM! what an incredible plot twist. we literally had to pause the episode and work out the timelines to see how long we had been living with changeling bashir. it was sooo good and i wasn't expecting it at all. mwah

jadzia and worf are so good. her personality being settled into like, comic relief makes for such a good match to his whole straight man aura. obviously she taunts him with his klingon operas. please.

also lol "at the first sign of betrayal i will kill him" <3

i do NOT like whatever they are doing with garak and ziyal. first of all, he's gay. secondly, she is like at LEAST 20 years younger than him. i want to trust them but after jake dating all those older women i am so suspicious

the backpedaling they're doing on fun and friendly former facist dukat is insane. not to say i'm not enjoying it. also, i like when he threatened kira and she was like "pffft whatever" like what a blow to his fucking ego. get his ass

VERY cool to see martok again - totally unexpected

our last wonderful surprise of this ep was tain being garak's DAD- it makes so much sense and puts so much into perspective, and, hi, JULIAN WAS IN THE ROOM DURING THIS. garak could have asked him to leave and he would have. garak could have told tain he was there. but he didn't, because he wanted the moral support, and because he wanted julian to know something true about him. AUUUGHGHGH

like, we haven't had NEARLY enough garashir since s2, but this was SUCH a good moment, even though it feels like they're trying to backpedal on that too. what a series of plot twists for this ep 10/10

by inferno's light (ds9) (ohio edition):

dukat's betrayal here i like vaguely saw coming, but jesus christ lol. he is back to FULL villain status...such a change from his little fireworks show for sisko and jake

garak's claustrophobia <3 absolutely loooved this especially since julian had to go in and get him. bangs tankard on table MORE GARASHIR! there literally has NOT been enough. i would love to know more about tzenketh but i know they will never ever tell us but wow <3

i am SO tired of seeing worf lose fights this episode was fucking great. not only did he not lose any fights except under an extremely unfair circumstances he totally kicked ass even while injured. FINALLY. even that jem'hadar guy was like i can kill him but i can't defeat him so i give up. SOOOO true finally let's respect my boy worf. why don't you bitches call him a pussy NOW

anyway, the little moment worf and garak had at the end of this episode...mwah. put them on the fuck chart

extremely excited to see gowran in this episode. he and his freaky eyes are so special to me

"this station was built by cardassia" "that's funny i thought it was built by bajoran slave labor" I LOVE WHEN SISKO IS FUN AND FERAL.

also i know the circumstances were extenuating but i cannot BELIEVE julian just fucking murdered that jem'hadar <3

watching little fake julian run around was so distressing...i kept yelling when he came on screen because nobody KNEWWWW he even fooled US! what a cool twist, again

overall these two episodes were incredibly good even though the strong action-y episodes are usually not ds9's forte. absolutely baller content for everyone except ziyal. i will at least take comfort in the fact that garak looked very uncomfortable to be hugged

doctor bashir, i presume (ds9) (ohio edition):

AGAIN. THIS ONE BLEW MY TITS CLEAN OFF

i'm mad garak wasn't in it. AUGHGHGH

okay, my main beef with this one was pacing...i thought they resolved the problem extremely quickly after the cat was out of the bag, and it's because they spent so much time on the doctor and leeta and rom. which would have been a GREAT b-plot for any other episode, i LOVE leeta and rom and i was cheering for him the whole time, but even though the EMH (sorta) cameo was very welcome, i do not welcome it at the expense of time taken from one of the most pivotal episodes for julian bashir probably in this whole series, especially when i have the sneaking suspicion that it won't be brought up again

and i did LIKE the resolution of this episode, his parents paying for what they'd done, but it didn't feel like he got to sit with it for long enough, and it certainly felt like we skipped over a few pivotal moments - the scene where he found out his best friend knows could have been EXTREMELY meaty. is he afraid of judgement? is he angry? is he worried miles will be angry? etc. but we just kind of breezed right on by it. like, i loved the way miles sat and let him get it out of his system in a fun inverse of julian talking him down from suicide but we could have had SOOO much more

anyway side from that i love. I LOVE. holy shit

like, i can't even talk about the episode itself, just this entire concept. like, they did essentially kill their kid. they made him the way he is, a new kid, and then hated him for the way he is. SPOCK CORE. and then to find that out as a teenager...

like, you know he had to google "does being genetically enhanced make me a bad person" and then of course what google spits out is "did you know about khan noonien singh and would you like to?" and he was like Oh No

like, he went into MEDICINE. and i know he had other reasons and all but he went into MEDICINE because that's the most harmless you can possibly be. he's using all his ill-gotten brainpower to HEAL PEOPLE because his first reaction was to not want to be khan...2! you can enhance genetics but just like o'brien said that can't grow compassion, which is what makes julian who he is

I WISH GARAK HAD BEEN THERE.

anyway, i will continue to think about dr bashir for a very long time and he definitely just rose a couple of notches in my character ranking

unity (voy):

i actually liked this one a lot. i love borg eps and i'm fascinated by a post-borg life lived by these people

that said, this lady gave off SUCH evil vibes that even after the truth was revealed and she and chakotay fucked i kept waiting for her to stab him in the back. which only kind of happened i guess

also, :( that chakotay is out here running around on janeway. SAD

i did love the borg meld scene though. it was incredibly scary. and i was TWIRLING MY HAIR when he got possessed or whatever the fuck

it was also so fun that he spent half of this episode dazed and stumbling around because of his little head injury. excellent material overall

oh yeah and i KNEW that corpse was gonna wake back up. i think it's so terrifying that when you're borg, even if you die, you aren't done. you can be revived because nothing kills you, not even the vacuum of space. that is easily the most horrifying part of it all

i also really liked chakotay and janeway's moment at the end. like, she was distrustful the entire time and he was too trusting, as he tends to sometimes be, and then at the end she was like aw but they weren't so bad and he was like [thousand yard stare of guy who has fucked 2! women who later betrayed him and has now been radicalized against the borg]

like i'm not saying it wasn't 99% consensual with riley or seska but i AM saying that he was hopped up on the borg meld when he fucked riley and later riley was willing to use chakotay's body for her own means when push came to shove and i'm saying that seska knew full well the whole time it was happening that it was under completely false pretenses and she stole his dna without his consent to make a baby he also didn't consent to, even if it turned out she fucked up and got that kaxon baby instead. like, chakotay better be careful or he's gonna start fitting into captain kirk's niche

darkling (voy):

this one fucking sucked so bad

like, sure, yes, emh evil now. does he have to keep creepy-touching all the women

also, WHAT? we get ONE LINE about kes and neelix breaking up and he's not even IN this episode? why did they even break them up??? just because they wrre planning on having her leave soon????? absolutely baffling

i don't think evil emh was very compelling...i am glad he got to act or whatever, but i didn't even get the usual "battle of the selves" that we often wind up with when we do these kind of tropes. it was just...a malfunction, and eventually it was corrected

also, what a BAFFLING b-plot. if you measure each of kes's years (except the first, i suppose) as a decade in human beings, we can assume she's in her thirties now, so she just...breaks up with her boyfriend to smooch the hot alien guy she met a few days ago and then maybe wants to run off with him? in her THIRTIES?

i DID like the EMH quoting the oath at the end, but without any sort of battle of the selves or real emotional investment in what he did when he was evil, it feels kind of wasted on this episode. it's a fine concept, but the execution falls soooo flat

NEXT TIME: voy's "rise" and "favorite son."

[gachawolfiebloom]

Your Pursuit of Perfection

Story and Artwork By: @GachaWolfieBloom

Chapter 1: Your Guilt Still Lies Within You

Summary: A few months after the events of WOTFI 2023, SMG4 starts having really bad dreams about the "Its gotta be perfect" incident. One night however, his fear allows the nightmares to break through and he gets taken to a horrific dimension. He finally meets the tv adware, who manipulates him into returning to his insane ways, intent on claiming much more than the perfect video. Now it's up to his friends to stop this madness and save SMG4. Can they do it in time or will they lose SMG4 forever? (In case you are unaware this is a sequel to the its gotta be perfect movie)

Tags: angst, its gotta be perfect, love confession, luigi, mario, meggy, melony, nightmares, scary, smg3, smg4, smg34, smg3 x smg4, tari, tv adware

It was a beautiful day at Peach's castle as Four was busy at his computer, making some videos. He was humming that catchy Mario theme song till he heard a knock at the door. "Coming!" He was going to answer it until he realized he was stuck at his chair. "That's...odd..." The knocking at the door turned into pounding as voices could be heard outside. "Four are you okay?" Another voice piped up "Get out of your room dude! Your friends are worried about you!" Four gasped as he knew those voices belonged to Meggy and Three.

The thumping of the door echoed through his hears as he struggled to get out of his seat. Why was did this feel.........so familiar...? Four was really starting to freak out now as he pulled all of his strength to get out of chair, but something wouldn't let him. Then he saw it. From the reflection of his computer screen he could see the insane man who had shut everyone out for weeks. He was back living that same traumatic experience from March 10. That very same scene.

He looked up to see the very sus website that displayed that hellhole keyboard. The tv icon popped up and said "Hey! It looks like you need a bit of editing help!" Four was shaking, terrified, struck with fear. "N-N-No...not again."

"Can I interest you in a magical keyboard? It's guaranteed to make your work PERFECT!" The moment that word was spoken, the room melted into black goop. Four collapsed on the ground as tentacles reached out to grab his arms. He pulled himself up as a dark substance flooded out of the computer and was heading straight towards him. He started running as fast as he could, but the darkness was hot on his trail. "Stop!" Four called out, but it didn't listen. The walls and ceilings of the environment was crumbling around him. "Why won't you just leave me and my friends alone!?"

He started to grow tired as the black fog was surrounding him. He looked up to see a wave of mist crashing down on him. "NOOOO!" He could feel his body being cracked, split, pulled apart. His skin fell like it was on fire and he began lurching, hunched over. A glowing pink substance was dripping from his mouth and tears began streaming from his eyes. It seemed as if someone was controlling him as the last thing heard was "STAY AWAY!" It all faded into black and Four had lost control. He had returned to his-

*Gasp* Four woke up in a cold sweat. Observing his surroundings, he noticed he was back in his castle at the Showgrounds. "Just a dream..." Four breathed a sigh of relief. "It felt so real." He reached over for his phone to check the time: 8:09 AM. Admiring defeat, he sighed and slowly trudged out from bed to go check himself in the bathroom. He made his way through all those toilets and went up to the mirror. "Not that bad." It wasn't exactly what he expected as his hair was a bit of a mess and his eyes had dark bags. Other than that he was fine. Then that image from the computer screen of his dream flashed in his mind. Breathing heavily, he looked down at his hands to see that they were...shaking?

"God what's wrong with me?" He pulled out a brush to fix his hair and went back to his room to get dressed. "Maybe some fresh air would do me some good." That seemed like a good idea considering he didn't even want to try to make videos right now. Lucky for him it was a bright and sunny day. He managed to walk out of the door for like 5 seconds until he crashed right into someone. Adjusting his eyes from the sunlight, he saw it was..."Three?"

Three picked himself up and began brushing off the dirt that managed to cling to his clothes. "Watch where you're going idiot!" Ignoring that last part, Four steadily got up and rubbed his head. "Sorry. I just haven't been sleeping that well. I've been having these awful nightmares ever since the heist." Before Three was able to make a remark, Meggy and Mario came up to greet them. "Hey you two! What do you mean by nightmares Four?" He began twirling his index fingers nervously. "Well I-"

"Hold on! What is up with your eyes! It looks more like you haven't even been sleeping for a week!" Meggy and Mario took notice of his dark circles as well. "Ooooo are you going coo coo crazy again SMG4?" 

"That's exactly it Mario! All these nightmares have been centered around the "perfect video" incident." It looked incredibly painful for him to say that. "Hmmmm...do you know what could be causing it?" If anything would be causing it, it would be the guilt that Four felt when casting aside his friends like that, but he could feel that there was something else that was plaguing him with these bad dreams. "I'm not entirely sure Meggy." Mario suddenly got an idea. "Mario knows!  We should have a hangout!" They all looked back at him with perplexed looks.

"And how is that exactly supposed to help with Four's nightmares?" Three questioned. "SMG4 will feel a lot better if he's having fun with his friends!" Mario then went off to go invite all of his friends. "Actually I'd think that would really help." Meggy reassured Three. He rolled his eyes and headed back to his cafe. "Fine. But I'm bringing Eggdog." Four still felt some unsettlement in him, but Meggy placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry Four. A fun night with friends will cheer you up in no time!" Four agreed and said goodbye to Meggy so he could get the castle ready. "I really hope this works."

You can't escape your fear SMG4...

Chapter 2: A Fun Night With Friends

[aclaywrites]

Some of both. More difficult in that most of the world’s dating pool was closed to me and it took me into my 50s to find my forever woman. More difficult in that I’ve had to edit myself and talk around things and avoid being my whole self at times and in situations. More difficult in that I have a more heightened awareness of the bullshit in the world and the effects it has on women and girls and how powerless I am.

Better in that I’ve never hung even a moment’s happiness or value on trying to find and keep a good man. Better in that I always planned on being alone in life and prepared for that, meaning now I’m Middle Aged with a home and career and the ability to install my own screen doors and change my own tires. (Though I also 💯 acknowledge that the world and nation has been manipulated around us so that young people simply cannot do what I did— they’ve been price gouged out of meaningful life. Y’all are registered and are going to vote right? Right!!!) Better in that I didn’t internalize a lot of female socialization, or was able to examine it and undo some of the damage and be careful not to pass it on to my daughter.

I’m very happy to be a lesbian and wouldn’t change if given a magic potion. There’s bs, but it’s also incredibly freeing.

[marengogo]

5: Marengo & The Rainbow Avengers

Take Two - by BTS  

[Music is a very big part of my life and I’m MOSTLY INCAPABLE of writing without music, so I just thought I'd share what I am listening to while writing this]

–🐺–🐺–🐺–

I meant to post this yesterday, in honour of their birthday, but, 24 hours never seem to be quite enough do they? So, here it is, the SUPER-LONG-DETAIL story of how Marengo was unexpectedly saved by 7 Rainbow Avengers, also known as BTS.

CHAPTER 1: MY HEART WAS BROKEN

The date was January 27; 2019. ARASHI japanese boy band that debuted in 1999 got together and in front of a well organised, and somewhat serene, press setting, televised to their fans all over the world including myself, announced that they would go on an indefinite hiatus starting January 1, 2021. Not sure why I wasn't expecting this. This was the first time they every did something like this, and the tell-tell signs had been plenty, but still, had I been ready, it still would have hit as hard as it did.

I remember silently crying, as Ohno their leader and my bias, who is the one in the middle of the above picture spoke and told us how, basically. he was tired and just wanted to spend his time on his boat fishing his days away. Fishing had always been his passion, but he also always dreamed of becoming the captain of his own ship Monkey D. Luffy watch out!. ARASHI had quite a few of their own shows and in one of them (Arashi Ni Shiayagare) we the fans, and the other members, got to cheer him on as he studied to get a licence to drive a boat. He succeeded, got his boat and for the rest of that year’s show he’d take us on adventures with his boat, fishing with famous Japanese celebrities as guests it was still a show after all. Every time he was on his boat he looked so fucking happy. So when he finally made the announcement, yes, I was shocked, yes, I was distraught, but ultimately I was happy for him. Just a whole STORM arashi means storm of emotions really. 

You need to understand, at that point, I had been their fan since 2009. If my Japanese is at the level it is right now, 1/10 of it is definitely thanks to them, since I used to regularly translate all their songs, dramas, shows, etc. To imagine I only started listening to them as a fun way to help me study Japanese … Anyways, back on track … their announcement happened on my 10 year anniversary (their 20th) and I remember the following day coming back from work, with their music in my ears, stopping at a traffic light wanting to cry as I kept thinking about them and right in that moment, I looked up at the big screen and so the following ad:

That evening was the first time I actually EVER seen the boys. Before that evening I had only  heard about them, A LOT,  and now in hindsight I know why. The first time had been some time in 2017, while I was looking for japanese articles to translate, I happened upon one that was about ARASHI, obviously, I got super excited and decided to read it. Only to find out how this journalist was basically describing why according to him ARASHI stood no comparison against this 7 boy band sensation “called BTS”. I was so irritated by that article I didn’t even bother to read their country of origin and for the longest time I decided they were Chinese 🤡. Mind you, I never once thought of BTS even after reading that article, my mind was ARASHI ARASHI ARASHI FOR DREAM! but that evening when I saw that ad I hated them. So I walked away, sad and angry O THE DRAMA! 🤡 but just like the first time I heard of them, I never thought of them again.

2020 rolled in, and just right before COVID, I started exploring new things on the internet amongst which I discovered a certain at the time budding actor and become a big fan not about to give myself out, so I won’t tell you who 😜, Let's call them X. What does a fan with extensive editing knowledge do? Why fan-edits of course! So I started making edits of X, and one day, as I was helping make X trend on Twitter for an event they were attending, on my timeline a particular video kept reappearing. So I clicked:

CHAPTER 2: I WAS LITERALLY SPEECHLESS AND MESMERIZED

Within ARASHI, only Ohno could actually dance, but these boys ... these boys could ALL dance and apparently they also sang, some holding one hell of a tune, and that beat, ooh the entire production…: JUST WOW. I must have watched the video another 10 times at least and all the while it never got old, in fact it only got better with every listen; so I then ended up adding ON to my playlist.

This day was February 25, 2020 and this is the date I unknowingly became ARMY and also the day I celebrate my anniversary on. Now you need to understand, my COVID days were mostly making edits of X, supporting X, trending for X on twitter so at this point I didn’t have the thoughts of wanting to find more about BTS. In my head, I found a song I liked, and thought "cool, I guess I don't necessesarily have to hate them ..." I quickly looked up JUNGKOOK because you don't belt a not like that and act like it didn't happened and kept it moving. 

Couple of days later, I’d start working on my first edit of X which blow up. This edit was was made using this one song I heard on a compilation which was circulating on twitter, it had a “certain dancer named Jimin” doing high kicks. The background song they used was named; UGH!. Sure, the dancer was hella skilled … but that song, I couldn’t stop playing the clip and though it was probably because of Jimin, my brain decided that it was the song can’t believe I found the exact edit!!! 👇🏾

Did I realise that UGH! which took me forever to find as I didn’t understand it was the name of the song at first 😂😂😂 was sung by BTS; as in THE SAME BTS I apparently didn’t hate so much anymore? NOPE. It didn’t even occurred to me because THAT BTS was a 7 member boy band not a hardcore 3 member rap group 😬😬😬. Anyways, I became obsessed with UGH! And as one does when in confinement, I started looking for people who would share my same enthusiasm, and since I had already fallen into the world of reactions on youtube for TV series THANKS A LOT COVID 🙃I thought I’d look to see if there was anyone who would react to songs, in this case, UGH! By the rapper group named BTS still to this point I had NO CLUE that they were the same people… I had to download an mp4 version from the internet in order to do the edit, so I didn't even know if it came from an album or where else and what I found was:

They were hella excited and I really could relate with that because that song always made me wanna turn the fuck up, but most of all, they were black people interested in something asian, and that for me was something I could heavily appreciated. Everyday I kept coming back to watch that reaction because it just made me so happy, and gave me so much energy, so I decided to see if they had any more songs from this rapper group. The first video that came up was their reaction to ON KINETIC MANIFESTO. THE AMOUNT OF DOTS THAT STARTED CONNECTING IN MY HEAD WERE SO MANY YOU’D THINK I DISCOVERED THE THREE LAWS OF EINSTEIN!

You should have seen my face when I discovered that UGH! was on the same album as ON: 🤡. This also made me want to look up the one member whose features really appealed to me the most, not gonna lie to y'all, it was love at first sight: RM. Wanting to know who he was I went on wikipedia, typed BTS and kept clicking every members name until I found him wikipedia has them ordered by age. I started reading about him and chuckled when I found out he was the leader what can I say, i seem to have had a type! aaaand he thought himself english and that made him even sexier in my eyes. When I tell you I spent a couple of days being obsessed with Namjoon 😬😬😬 ...

Anyways, I think a part of me wanted to start being invested, thus, before continuing watching more reactions with FoSquad I decided I wanted to listen to MOTS7, in its entirety, by myself and aside from ON and UGH! The only other song that I absolutely adored was Filter. AND SO began my search for the uncredited female singer that sang Filter, whom I couldn't find anywhere, NOT A SINGLE GOOGLE PAGE HAD THE NAME OF THE FEMALE SINGER THAT SANG FILTER ON ONE OF THE BIGGEST ALBUMS OF THE YEAR. For a couple of days this is what my google search looked like “What is the name of the female singer that sings Filter with BTS”. … 🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡

CHAPTER 3: A THREE MONTHS BLINK

Not finding an answer with regards to the mysterious Filter Singer and also concluding that the internet was still so lacking on proper representation of Asian artists, rather than me being the one who was dumb AF, I went continued my supporting X life, while constantly listening to ON, UGH! and Filter. Eventually, it was time to make another X edit, meaning I needed to search for new songs and since X was obsessed with BlackPink I decided to give them a chance and at the time the most recent song was SOUR CANDY feat. Lady Gaga. It was very Gagaish I just so happen to really like Gaga and the beat was perfect for editing, so I used it. On top of that, I joined X's I don't remember how many days countdown to the premiere of “How You Like That”. As I said, X was obsessed with BlackPink, hence, I became a Blink for 3 months.

The day How You Like That dropped I was just as excited as X and at the time I was staying with my directors at their place and they became my "covid bubble". The 3 of us were trying to save our company during COVID inactivity, which meant that during the mornings it was an incessant string of calls with lawyers, with rightfully desperate landlords chasing for money we didn’t have, third parties also needed money we didn't have ... basically, just a whole lot of heavy grinding. But in the evening, we'd cook dinner and we’d all watch a movie once we had quickly gone through the most recent Queer Eye season, even Queer Eye in Japan! and after they’d go to bed, I’d step up, talking with my X Twitter GC, while watching other shows and right before going to bed I'd watch How You Like That to get my spirits ready for the next day.

This was my routine at their house, every day from the release of that song, for a good 2 months. When August rolled around I decided to go back home, as the situation with the company seemed at least a bit stable. So it was back to self-distancing by myself and to my own surprise I didn’t feel the urge to listen to BlackPink at all. X was all that really mattered after all, and they had stopped talking about them, for the time being. So one early ass morning on August 21, 2020 I just so happened to be awake and twitter was buzzing with people waiting for a new BTS song to drop. As I was already awake and had another hour waiting for X to appear at their interview event, I decided to silently wait with ARMY; I did like ON after all. Thus, came Dynamite

CHAPTER 4: LIKE AN ECHO IN THE FOREST

It was nothing like ON. So at first I was a bit confused and didn't know what to think, as it was clear that I hadn't understood their genre. Yet, somehow, that boy winking at me at the end of the MV kept making me want to replay the song and before I knew it I was “shining through the city with a little funk and so-oul!”. Eventually, I looked him up and found out that the cute boxy smile boy with the light blue outfit’s name was V. Just as easy a name to remember as RM. By all means, he wasn’t RM, but that smile just was the cheekiest thing I had seen in a while.

But there was another person that was also FINALLY "introduced" to me through this video, the one who was my mysterious female voice and "UGH! dancer": JIMIN. Not sure why it didn’t connect with ON but the second I heard his voice in Dynamite DOTS WERE CONNECTING LEFT AND RIGHT, AND IT WAS FINALLY CLEAR IN MY MIND THAT SHE WAS ACTUALLY A HE, WHO WAS PRETTIER THAN A SHE AND SANG & DANCED LIKE AN ANGEL 🤯🤯🤯. ... Basically Dynamite introduced me to VMIN. 

It goes without saying, my queer-senses were all over the place with Jimin. So, as i usually do, not at all knowledgeable of the South Korean culture, I dove into the internet to ask and see if JM was part of the community: nothing came up. In fact, it was full of people going to a great length to explain why there was NO WAY IN HELL THAT JM WAS QUEER. Funnily enough, as I kept trying to look for connections between JM and the community, all that came up with connections between RM and V and the community (as they had made posts and connected with queer people, music, etc). The strong denying of any sort of connection between JM and Rainbow nation did discourage me a little, NGL. I had spent a year trying to not fall for queerbaiting and I didn’t want it to happen again. However, as I didn’t want to jump the gun since I didn’t quite know them at all, I decided that even though he wasn't a Fred Mercury he perhaps was a Bowie or a Prince. I was okay with that and decided to close that rainbow chapter at that AT THE TIME, BECAUSE WE ALL KNOW WHERE I STAND NOW 🤡. 

The weeks following Dynamite things around X’s management start to look very dodgy and fishy. As a fan you want to be positive, hope for the best, but as more and more evidence was brought forth I had to start to at least dissociate X from their company. This really made me and my X-friends incredibly sad and pretty disenchanted I will admit. Day by day we tried to look at the bright side but, it kept looking rather grim and right about that time somehow I was exposed to STAY GOLD and LIFE GOES ON. Thought Stay Gold wss the one in Japanese, the one that stuck with me was Life Goes On. I remember walking around the still empty studio we hadn’t been able to reinstated none of my colleagues with Life Goes On playing rather loudly. The comfort that song provided me in that moment I will never be able to explain. Is probably the same feeling older ARMY have with Spring Day. Life Goes On came to me in a moment when I really needed to hear those words, gently and promising, like an echo in the forest. 

As it started to become clearer that X was just as cowardly as their company I took a break from my Twitter page, which also just so happened to fall around Xmas time, so I got to actually have a real break with my sibling away from all that nonsense and into a different more secure looking world.

CHAPTER 5: WHO IS BTS?

I spent a good deal of my xmas break watching people's reaction to BTS, their story, their struggles, their MV. Through these reactors and “BTS experts” I was introduced to SOPE. In my baby ARMY experience they came as a set, Ying&Yang, one the opposite of the other, at least this was how majority of the old BTS edits and explaining videos would portray them luckily we now have many updated and more extensive videos out there. While watching all these compilations I also eventually learned all their names and started watching RUN BTS from episode 1 when I figured out tha utmost of the edits were from there I thought “Let’s go straight to the source, if I want to learn really what they are like”. 

The first thing that became pretty clear to me was that for example HOBI and YOONGI weren’t quite exactly like the compilations had been describing them all of them in fact. And it wasn’t like all the boys tried to act reserved or hide certain parts of themselves, they seemed so open that if people paid even just the smallest amount of attention they would know. So for the first time in a long time I found a group that wasn’t giving me doubts, worries … I really didn’t have to think too much but at the same time I knew that if I ever fell back into being depressed from my post-COVIDic environment, they’d also be able to find me down there, because they didn’t seem to shy away from those situations either. 

Going back to RUN BTS real quick, the one thing that it did for me, was introducing me to none other than KIM SEOKJIN. Before I knew it I always found myself following jin on the screen, waiting for him to talk and say a pun or dad joke, or just wanted to see and hear him laugh … I developed a crush for Jin and a small pointy edge every time someone would leave comments on youtube like “why is jin even in this band”, “ there is a reason why Jin dances in the back”. “Jin is not even handsome”. GURL/BOI/ENBY. Taking a break from X meant I would stay well away from Twitter, so I had no idea about BTS proper solos, antis, etc and like a moth to a flame, I’d fall for any troll and start defending Jin against the world. MFers … how dare they disrespected him like that! AND IN FRONT OF ME!

That being said a person called me a Jin-solo in a comment and the second that happened I was about to reply that "Yes I love Jin-" the implications of being a solo, COMPLETELY lost on my Baby ARMY ass but the second i started typing I immediately thought of Namjoon, and then Jungkook, and Jimin ... eventually I thought of all members and realised that I liked each member for different reasons and I couldn't choose one. Further research would eventually teach me that meant I was 0T7.

On my way back from my Xmas break I decided that I would stop associating with X and just move on with life. On my journey back home we were told we had to be Lockdown again, which really depressed me, but as if it was second nature, I played Life Goes On and tried to think of any positive thing. So I got back home wanting to watch more BTS reactions, while listening to BTS and wondering what Jin was doing. And from that moment on for a good month I’d go into my still empty office but this time knowing we could start calling back at least 2 of my colleagues, which made me so ecstatic sit down with my coffee and say “Alexa, play BTS” and Alexa would reply “Shuffling songs from BTS” and ALWAYS the playlist would start with a familiar whistle …

And the rest is history 😜.

So who is BTS? They are the 7 boys that came to my rescue when I felt heartbroken. The 7 boys that had so much skill and love to share with the world and wanted for me to join and not be left out. They are the boys that never pressured me into needing to like them, but somehow were always there when I unknowingly needed them. They are the 7 boys who reminded me that it was okay to not be okay and just go with the flow of things, even if it is against the flow of all. They are the 7 boys that keep trusting us with their everything and all they ask in return, if possible, is to be there, at end of this gigantic rainbow. And that is exactly where I plan to be. I am so grateful for all 7 of you and words could never describe how much I love you.

HAPPY 10TH ANNIVERSARY MY RAINBOW AVENGERS.

Always incredible respectfully yours,

Marengo. 

[bonnvivre]

A Funny Thing- Ch 23 word dump

new chapter to start off the new year LETS FREAKIN GOOOOOOO

i just washed my sheets too im settled in, my bed smells great, im having a great time

——————————

“And while Yuuji had humoured him at first, had been nothing but smiles as he posed for the pictures, the boy has clearly grown tired of the routine..” me during the filo family christmas party when they wanna take pictures … i can still see the ring light ….

ahh the first send off, brings tears to my eyes ;___;  gojo taking a bunch of pictures and sukuna constantly checking him over to make sure he has his stuff- fathers are father-ing and they didn’t wanna let him go just yet :[[

aw they slept together 

before i go on, the new friend is ACTUALLY megumi (i always thought it was megumi shshsh) cus toji literally couldnt afford another school and gojo’s gonna see him and either be like, “wait he looks familiar” or make THAT face right upon seeing him am i right lads or am i right lads (post chapter edit: i am right lads)

HAHAHAHA AN HOUR LONG RANT ON HIS NAILS PLS i see it yea canonically, sukuna usually makes himself look presentable . always pushing back his hair, dusting his clothes off, etc. he’s always gotta look good

whehehdhe he likes sukunaaaaaa !! someday that like will turn to love (post chapter edit: and that someday was today lads)

“How dare he have friends and hobbies and interests that don’t revolve around Satoru.” [gasp] HOW DARE YOU HAVE OTHER FRIENDS ARE YOU MAD ?! 

what kind of netflix drama did he get his story from this time 🙄

thats not the only time you’ll be freezing bc of geto hahahahahahaha

the run on sentences of yuuji’s speech plus casual megumi drop is killing me

i think its a good choice to have off screen moments be mentioned within the present, readers get the context while keeping the story moving . kinda like what gege does :0

ARE THEY WATCHING HUMAN EARTHWORM (post chapter edit: YES THEY WERE OHOHOHO)

FOR ITS HIS FIRST DESIRE TO KISS SATORU OH MY GODDDDDDD WGAGAFBWHVFKD i may have yelled a little

AGH . blocked yet again … i know its still too early but ugh it hurts oh the pain

THATS AN EXPENSIVE MANICURE WTF AND TOJI’S BACK YIPPEEEEEE

i love sukuna being satoru’s voice of reason, bringing sense and logic to satoru’s emotional thinking and it doesn’t clash at all; rather, it works for them very well

AWWWW YUUJI AND MEGUMIIIIIII SO CUTEEEE

“Those baggy, unwashed garments of his allow for superior mobility, while the stench deters opponents from engaging in close-combat.” LMAOOOOO sukuna’s sarcastic remarks about toji, especially his smell im crying 

post chapter thoughts:

 i wanted to see him and megumi in this story so bad ngl and im so happy they’re here !!! i blame the copious amounts of fushiguro family comics i’ve consumed- shout out to ddub1618 on twt

bruh my page reloaded i have to go back

i love long chapter gimme long chapter hmhmhmmhmh

i saw the interpretations of yuuji’s sickness and i thought it was cool but it’s also giving “the curtains represent his depression and lack of will to carry on vs the curtains were blue” lol

it would be a … shame if toji ran out of sugar and needed a bag …….. its a good thing satoru has a nice ol bag at home >:] 

OHHHH IT WOULD BE A SHAME IF THEY DECIDED TO GIVE HIM A NICE HOMECOOKED MEAL OUT OF THE GOODNESS OF THEIR HEARTS >:]]]

[mariacallous]

Content warning: This article contains a scene including a graphic sexual assault.

My friend sets aside his cocktail, its foamy top sprinkled with cinnamon in the shape of a hammer and sickle, to process his disbelief at what I’ve just told him. “You want to return to Russia?” he asks.

I met Enrico when I arrived in Stockholm eight months ago. He understands my situation as well as anyone. He knows that I fled Moscow three days after Russia invaded Ukraine; that my name, along with the names of other journalists who left, has fallen into the hands of pro-Kremlin activists who have compiled a public list of “traitors to the motherland”; that some of the publications where I’ve worked have been labeled “undesirable organizations”; that a summons from the military enlistment office is waiting for me at home; that since Vladimir Putin expanded the law banning “gay propaganda,” I could be fined up to $5,000 merely for going on a date. In short, Enrico knows what may await if I return: fear, violence, harm.

He wants me to explain why I would go back, but I can’t think of an answer he’d understand or accept. Plus, I’m distracted by the TV screens in the bar. They’re playing a video on loop—a crowd in January 1990 waiting to get into the first McDonald’s to open in Russia. The people are in fluffy beaver fur hats, and their voices speak a language that, for the past year, I’ve heard only inside my head. “Why am I here?” a woman in the video says in Russian. “Because we are all hungry, you could say.” As the doors to McDonald’s open and the line starts to move, I no longer hear everything Enrico is saying (“You could live with me rent-free …” “You could go to Albania. It’s cheaper than in Scandinavia ...” “We could get married so you can live and work here legally …”).

Part of me had planned this meeting in hopes that Enrico would persuade me to change my mind—and he did try. But I’ve already bought the nonrefundable plane tickets, which are saved on my phone, ready to go.

A week later, I spend a night erasing the past year from my life—a year of running through Europe as if through a maze. I clear my chats in Telegram and unsubscribe from channels that cover the war. I wipe my browser history, delete my VPN apps, remove the rainbow strap on my watch, and tear the Ukrainian flag sticker from my jacket. The next day—March 29, 2023—I fly to Tallinn, Estonia, and ride a half-empty bus through a deep forest to the Russian border. The checkpoint sits at a bridge over the Narva River, between two late-medieval castles. German shepherds keep watch, and an armed soldier patrols the river by boat.

“What were you doing in the European Union?” the Russian guard asks.

“I was on vacation,” I say.

“You were on vacation for more than a year?” she asks.

I reply that I have been very tired. She stamps my passport and the bus moves on.

What I didn’t tell the guard, and what I couldn’t tell Enrico, is that I’m tired of hiding from my country—and that I want to trade one form of hiding for another. I have conducted my adult life as if censorship and propaganda were my natural enemies, but now some broken part of me is homesick for that world. I want to be deceived, to forget that there is a war going on.

“Start from the beginning,” my mother would say when I couldn’t figure out a homework problem. “Just start all over again.”

I woke up on February 24, 2022, to a message from a friend that read: “The war has begun.” At the time, I was an editor at GQ Russia, gathering material for our next issue on Russian expats who had moved back home during the pandemic. I was also editing a YouTube series called Queerography. For a blissful moment, I took my friend’s text for a joke. Then I saw videos from Ukrainian towns under bombardment. Russian forces had encircled most of the country. My boyfriend was still asleep. I wished I could be in his place.

A few months earlier, American intelligence had informed Ukraine and other countries in Europe of a possible offensive. But Russia’s foreign minister, Sergey Lavrov, had responded: “This is all propaganda, fake news and fiction.” While I didn’t necessarily believe the truth of Lavrov’s words, I doubted the regime could afford to tell a lie so big. Vladimir Putin’s approval rating was near its lowest point since he gained power. On the eve of the attack on Ukraine, only 3 percent of my fellow citizens thought the war was “inevitable.”

After the invasion, I spent three days in silence. I couldn’t sleep, and I had no appetite. My hands trembled so badly that I couldn’t hold a glass of water still. When I visited friends, we’d sit in different corners of the room scrolling through the news, occasionally breaking the silence with “This is fucked up.”

In Moscow, armed police patrolled the streets to deter protesters. Soon, the press reported that a man was arrested in a shopping mall for an “unsanctioned rally” because he was wearing blue and yellow sneakers, the colors of the Ukrainian flag. News media websites were blocked in accordance with the new law on “fake news” about Ukraine. People stood in line to empty the ATMs. “War” and “peace”—two words that form the title of Russia’s most celebrated novel—were now forbidden to be pronounced in public. Instagram was filled with black squares, uncaptioned, seemingly the only form of protest that remained possible. The price of a plane ticket out of Russia soared from $100 to $3,000, in a country where the minimum wage was about $170 a month.

If I waited another day, it seemed, the Iron Curtain would descend and I would become a hostage of my own country. So on the morning of March 1, my boyfriend and I locked the door to our Moscow apartment for the last time and made for the airport. In my backpack were warm clothes, $500 in cash, and a computer. We were leaving for nowhere, not knowing which country we would wake up in the next day.

At the international airport in Yerevan, Armenia, flights arrived every hour from Russia and the United Arab Emirates, another route along which people fled. Once we were there, we boarded a minivan to Georgia, the only country in the South Caucasus with which Russia no longer maintained diplomatic ties. The van was packed with families and their pets. From one of the back seats, a girl asked her mother: “Mama, are we far away from the war now?” A night road through mountain passes and volcanic lakes took us to the border. I asked a guard there to share a mobile hot spot with me so I could get online and retrieve coronavirus test results in my email. “Of course,” he replied, “though you don’t deserve it.”

In Tbilisi, the alleys were lit up at night with blue and yellow. On the city’s main hotel hung a poster that read “Russian warship, go fuck yourself.” Fresh graffiti on walls around the city read: “Putin is a war criminal and murderer.”

At an acquaintance’s apartment, we shared a room with two other men who had fled. “The most important thing is that we’re safe,” we reassured each other if one of us began to cry. “I’m not a criminal,” said one of the guys. “Why should I have to run from my own country?” None of us had an answer.

In Russia I was now labeled a “traitor and fugitive.” The Committee for the Protection of National Interests, an organization associated with Putin’s United Russia party, had stolen a database containing the names of journalists who had left the country and distributed it on Telegram. Liberal journalists in Moscow had begun to find the words “Here lives a traitor to the Motherland” scrawled on their doors. One critic was sent a severed pig’s head.

My fellow fugitives and I started looking for somewhere more permanent to live, but most rental ads in Tbilisi stipulated “Russians not accepted.” We tried to open bank accounts, but when the bank employees saw our red passports they rejected our applications. Like so many other companies, Condé Nast—which publishes GQ and WIRED, among other magazines—pulled out of Russia. I was without a job. The YouTube show I edited closed down soon after, its founder declared a foreign agent and later added to the Register of Extremists and Terrorists. Foreign publications told me that all work with Russian journalists was temporarily suspended.

Soon signs began to appear outside bars and restaurants in Tbilisi saying that Russians were not welcome inside. I decided to sign in to Tinder to try to meet people in this new city, but most men I chatted with suggested that I go home and take Molotov cocktails to Red Square. I placed a Ukrainian flag sticker on my breast pocket and wandered the city in silence, ashamed of my language.

My boyfriend and I finally found a room in a former warehouse with no windows, the furniture covered in construction dust. The owner was an artist who was in urgent need of money. To pay the rent, I sold online all my belongings from the Moscow apartment: a vintage armchair from Czechoslovakia, an antique Moroccan rug, books dotted with notes, a record player given to me by the love of my life. Ikea had closed its stores in Russia, and customers wrote to me: “Your stuff is like a belated Christmas miracle.”

One day in mid-spring, I left the warehouse for an anti-war rally that was being held outside the Russian Federation Interests Section based in the Swiss Embassy. The motley throngs of people chanted “No to war!” In the crowd I glimpsed the familiar faces of journalists who had left Russia like me. “Why did you come here?” a stranger asked me in English. “To us, to Georgia. Do you really think your cries will change anything? You shouldn’t be protesting here. You should be outside the Kremlin.”

I wanted to tell him that I grew up in a country where a dictator came to power when I was 6 years old, a man who has his enemies killed. I wanted to say: One time, when I was an editor at Esquire, my boss denounced an author I worked with to Putin’s security service, the FSB, and the FSB sent agents to interrogate me, and when I warned the author, the FSB came for me again, threatening to arrest me and listing aloud the names of all my family members. I wanted to tell the stranger on that street in Tbilisi that I’d had to disappear for a while, and that when I felt brave enough, I had gone to protests and donated money to human rights organizations. That I had fought but, it seemed, had lost. That I just wanted to live the one life I’ve got a little bit longer. But at the time I couldn’t find the words.

A month later, the world saw images of mass graves in the Kyiv suburb of Bucha, dead limbs sticking out of the sand. Outside our building one morning, on an old brick wall that was previously empty, was a fresh message, the paint still wet: “Russians, go home.” My boyfriend went back to Russia so he could obtain a European visa, promising he would be back in a month, but he never returned.

I spent the rest of the year on the move: Cyprus, Estonia, Norway, France, Austria, Hungary, Sweden. I went where I had friends. The independent Russian media that I’d always consumed went into exile too, setting up operations where they could. TV Rain began broadcasting out of Amsterdam. Meduza moved its Russian branch to Europe. The newspaper Novaya Gazeta, cofounded by the Nobel Peace Prize laureate Dmitry Muratov, reopened in Latvia. Farida Rustamova, a former BBC Russia correspondent, fled and launched a Substack called Faridaily, where she began publishing information from Kremlin insiders. Journalists working for the independent news website Important Stories, which published names and photos of Russian soldiers involved in the murder of civilians in a Ukrainian village, went to Czechia. These, along with 247,000 other websites, were blocked at the behest of the Prosecutor General’s Office but remained accessible in Russia through VPNs.

“During the first days of the war, everything was in a fog,” says Ilya Krasilshchik, the former publisher of Meduza, who went on to found Help Desk, which combines news media and a help hotline for those impacted by war. “We felt it our duty to inform people of what the Russian army was doing in Ukraine, to document the hell that despair and powerlessness leave in their wake. But we also wanted to empathize with all of the people caught up in this meat grinder.” Taisiya Bekbulatova, a former special correspondent for Meduza and the founder of the news outlet Holod, tells me, “In nature you find parasites that can force their host to act in the parasite’s own interest, and propaganda, I believe, works in much the same way. That’s why we felt it was our duty to provide people with more information.”

I wanted to continue my work in journalism, but the publications that had fled Russia weren’t hiring. My application for a Latvian humanitarian visa as an independent journalist was rejected, and I didn’t have the means to pay the fees for US or UK talent visas.

The panic attacks began in the fall, during my first stay in Stockholm. Red spots, first appearing around my groin, started to take over my body, creeping up to my throat. I’d get sick, recover, and then wake up with a sore throat. In October, I learned that my boyfriend had married someone else. The next day, my mother called to tell me that a summons from the military enlistment office had arrived.

I was in Cyprus when, at 3 am one February morning, I woke to the sound of walls cracking and the metal legs of my bed knocking on marble. Fruit fell to the floor and turned to mush. The tremors of a magnitude-7.8 earthquake in Gaziantep, Turkey, had passed through the Mediterranean Sea and reached the island. I didn’t scramble out of bed. I hoped instead that I would be buried under the rubble—a choice made for me by fate. Later that month, my friends in Stockholm insisted that I come stay with them again. I wandered the streets on a clear winter day, buying up expired food in the stores. The blue and yellow flags of Sweden shone bright in the sun, but I saw in them the flag of another country. Back in the apartment, I slept all the time, and when I did wake I lulled myself with Valium. One day I felt the urge to swallow the whole bottle.

Frightened by my own thoughts, I felt how much I wanted to be back in Russia. In my mother country, all the tools of propaganda would keep painful truths at bay. “The news in Russia is only ever good news,” Zhanna Agalakova, a former anchor on state TV’s main news show, later told me. Agalakova quit after the invasion began and returned the awards she had received to Putin. “Even if people understand that they’re being brainwashed, in the end they give up, and propaganda calms them down. Because they simply have nowhere to run.”

Masha Borzunova, a journalist who fled Russia and runs her own YouTube channel, walked me through a typical day of Russian TV: “A person wakes up to a news broadcast that shows how the Russian military is making gains. Then Anti-Fake begins, where the presenters dismantle the fake news of Western propaganda and propagate their own fake news. Then there’s the talk show Time Will Tell that runs for four, sometimes five hours, where we’ll see Russian soldiers bravely advancing. Then comes Male and Female—before the war it was a program about social issues, and now they discuss things like how to divide the state compensation for funeral expenses between the mother of a dead soldier and his father who left the family several years ago. Then more news and a few more talk shows, in which a KGB combat psychic predicts Russia’s future and what will happen on the front. This is followed by the game show Field of Miracles, with prizes from the United Russia party or the Wagner Private Military Company. And then, of course, the evening news.”

I had gone from being infuriated by this kind of hypnosis to envying it. The free flow of information had become for me what a jug of water is to a severely dehydrated person: The right amount can save you, but too much can kill.

“Welcome to Russia,” the bus driver said as we crossed the border from Estonia. I was nearly home. There was no particular reason for me to return to Moscow, so I made for St. Petersburg, where some friends had an apartment that was empty. I used to look after it before the war, coming over to unwind and water the flowers. It was a place of peace.

All my friends had left Russia too, so I was the first person to set foot in the apartment in a year. Black specks covered every surface-—midges that had flown in before the war and died. I scrubbed the place through the first night, starting to cry like a child when I came across ordinary objects I remembered from peacetime: shower gel, a blender, a rabbit mask made out of cardboard. Over the next few weeks, I tried to return to the past as I remembered it. I went to the bakery in the morning. I exercised, read, wrote. At first glance, the city seemed unchanged. There were the same boatloads of tourists on the canals, tour groups on Palace Square, overcrowded bars in Dumskaya Street. But more and more, St. Petersburg began to feel to me like the backdrop of a period film: impeccably executed, the gap between the past and the present visible only in the details.

One day I heard loud noises outside my window, as if all the TVs in town had suddenly started emitting the sound of static. The next day the headline read: “Terrorist Suspected of Bombing St. Petersburg Café Detained and Giving Testimony.” The café had hosted an event honoring the pro-war military blogger Vladlen Tatarsky, and a bust of his likeness had blown up, killing him and injuring more than 30 people. But life went on as if nothing had happened. St. Petersburg was plastered with posters for an upcoming concert by Shaman, a singer who had become popular since the invasion thanks to his song “I’m Russian.” (He would later release “My Fight,” a song that seemingly alludes to Hitler’s Mein Kampf.) In a candy store I noticed a chocolate truffle with a portrait of Putin on the wrapper. “It’s filled with rum,” the clerk said.

Sometimes in checkout lines at the supermarket I glimpsed mercenaries in balaclavas, newly returned from or preparing to go to the front. On the escalator down to the subway, where classical music usually floated from the speakers, Rachmaninov’s Second Piano Concerto was interrupted by an announcement: “Attention! Male citizens, we invite you to sign a contract with the military!” In the train car, I saw a poster that read: “Serving Russia is a real job! Sign a military service contract and get a salary starting at 204,000 rubles per month”—about $2,000. One afternoon, as I stood on the platform next to a train bound for a city near the Georgian border, I overheard two men talking:

“I earned 50,000 in a month.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, bro. But I won’t go back to Ukraine again. It’s fucking terrifying.”

This was a rare admission. The horror of the war’s casualties—zinc coffins, once prosperous cities turned to ruins—were otherwise hidden behind the celebrations for City Day, the opening of the St. Petersburg International Economic Forum, and marathons held on downtown streets.

After a week or so in Russia, feeling very alone, I went on Tinder. One evening I invited a man I hadn’t met over to the apartment. I placed two cups of tea on a table, but when the man arrived he didn’t touch his. He threw me to the floor, unbuttoned his pants, and inserted his dry penis inside me. “I know you want it,” he whispered, covering my mouth. “I can tell from your asshole.”

I bit him and squirmed, trying to get him off me. After he left, my legs kicked frantically and I couldn’t breathe. I knew that the police wouldn’t help me. I contacted Tinder to tell them that I had been raped and sent them a screenshot of the man’s profile, but no one answered. That evening I bought a ticket for a night train to Moscow. More than ever, I wanted to see my mother.

“You must have frozen over there,” My mother said as she met me at the door to her apartment outside Moscow. Putin had said that, without Russian-supplied gas, “Europeans are stocking up on firewood for the winter like it’s the Middle Ages.” People were supposedly cutting down trees in parks for fuel and burning antique furniture. Some of the only warm places in European cities were so-called Russian houses, government-funded cultural exchanges where people could go escape the cold as part of a “From Russia with Warmth” campaign. When I told my mother that Sweden recycles waste and uses it to heat houses, she grimaced in disgust.

Thirteen months earlier, when I had left the country, my mother called to ask me why. I told her that I didn’t want to be sent to fight, that I couldn’t work in Russia anymore. “You’re panicking for no reason,” she said. “Why would the army need you? We’ll take Kyiv in a few days.” After the horrors in Bucha, I had sent her an interview with a Russian soldier who admitted to killing defenseless people. “It’s fake,” she responded. “Son, turn on the TV for once. Don’t you see that all those bodies are moving?” She was referring to optical distortions in a certain video, which Russian propagandists used to their advantage.

After that, we had agreed not to discuss my decision or views so that we could remain a family. Instead, we talked about my sister’s upcoming wedding, my aunt’s promotion at a Chinese cosmetics company whose products were replacing the brands that had quit the country. My uncle, a mechanic, had finally found a job that would get him out of debt—repairing military equipment in Russian-occupied territories. My mother was planning to take advantage of falling real estate prices to buy land and build a house. In their reality, the war was not a tragedy but an elevator.

I had arrived on Easter Sunday, and the whole family gathered at my mother’s house for the celebration. My aunt told me she was worried that I might be forced to change my gender in the West; she had heard that the Canadian government was paying people $75,000 to undergo gender-affirming surgery and hormonal therapy. My stepfather was interested in the availability of meat in Swedish stores. Someone asked whether it was dangerous to speak Russian abroad, whether Ukrainians had assaulted me. I kept quiet about the fact that the only person who had attacked me since the invasion was a Russian man, that the real threat was much closer than my family thought. The TVs in each of the three rooms of the apartment were all switched on: They played a church service, then a film called Century of the USSR. There were news broadcasts every two hours and the program Moscow. The Kremlin. Putin—a kind of reality show about the president.

“Do you know what this is?” my mother said as she placed a dusty bottle of wine without any labels in the middle of the festive table. “Your uncle gave it to us,” my stepfather chimed in. “He brought it from Ukraine.” A trophy from a bombed-out Ukrainian mansion near Melitopol, stolen by my uncle while Russian soldiers helped themselves to electronics and jewelry. “Let’s drink to God,” said my stepfather, raising his glass. “You can’t raise a glass to God,” my mother answered. “That’s not done.” “Let’s drink to our big family,” he said. The clinking of crystal filled the room; to my ears it sounded like cicadas.

Suddenly I felt sick and locked myself in the bathroom. I tried to vomit, but my stomach was empty, bringing up only a retch. “What’s wrong?” my mother asked, standing outside the door. “Drink some water, rest, sleep.” I tried to lie down. My skin began to itch. My friend Ilya Kolmanovsky, a science journalist, once told me: “Did you know that a person cannot tickle himself? Likewise you cannot deceive a mind that already knows the truth.” Self-deception is dangerous, he said: “Just as your immune system can attack your own body, your mind can also engage in destroying you day by day.”

That evening I left my mother’s apartment for St. Petersburg and made an appointment with a psychiatrist. I told the doctor that I felt like the past had been lost and I couldn’t find a place for myself in the present. She asked when my problems began. “During the war,” I answered, careful to keep my face expressionless. The psychiatrist noted my response in the medical history. “You’re not the only one,” she said. She diagnosed me with prolonged depression and severe anxiety and prescribed tranquilizers, an antipsychotic, and an anti-depressant. “There are problems with drugs from the West,” she said. Better to take the Russian-made ones. If the Western pills were like Fiat cars, then these would be the Russian analog, Zhigulis: “Both will bring you closer to calm, but the quality of the trip will differ.”

Though the drugs seemed to help, I began to realize over the next several weeks that no amount of pills could change this fact: The home I was looking for in Russia existed only in my memories. In June, I decided to emigrate once again. At the border in Ivangorod, spikes of barbed wire pierced the azure sky and smoke from burning fuel oil rose from the chimneys of the customs building. This time, as I left, I felt that I had no reason to return. My home was nowhere, but I would continue searching for one.

With financial help from a friend, I moved to Paris and signed a contract with a book agent. I made an effort not to read the news. Still, from time to time, I came across stories about Putin’s increasing popularity at home, how foreign nationals could obtain Russian citizenship for fighting in Ukraine, how the regime passed a law that would allow it to confiscate property from people who spread “falsehoods about the Russian army.” One day, when air defense systems shot down a combat drone less than 8 miles from my mother’s home, she called me and asked: “Why did you leave? Who else will protect me when the war comes to us? Who if not my son?” I didn’t have an answer. “I love you, Mama”—that was the only truth I could tell her.

[aeoki]

New Start GO! - Epilogue 2

Location: Seisou Hall Common Room Characters: Hajime, Tomoya, Mitsuru & Nazuna

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ< The next day. After “Sunny Day Live”. >

Mitsuru: ♪~

Hajime & Nazuna: ……♪

Tomoya: Hey, why did you suddenly say we should meet up, Mitsuru?

I won’t know how to react if you just told me to meet you here,, you know~ Could you at least tell me what we’re doing here?

Mitsuru: Oh, you’re here! I got so tired of waiting, y’know!

Our performance is over so I figured we could watch the rerun of “New Start Go!” together, so I called you guys over on “Hallhands”~♪

Tomoya: Oh, so that’s what this is all about. You could’ve just told us in the message.

We were busy preparing for “Sunny Day Live”, so we didn’t have any time to watch the pre-recording, huh.

I was curious to see how the studio reacted and the scenes we didn’t appear in, so I guess we can relax while we watch it.

Nazuna: This seat’s free, Tomo-chin~

We’ve got leftover fizzy drinks and snacks from yesterday’s wrap-up party too. Let’s have them while we watch ♪

Tomoya: Oh, thank you.

Mitsuru: Whaddya wanna drink? Hajime-chan’s pouring us the drinks right now.

I’m gonna have apple juice, y’know. It’s nice so I recommend it, Tomo-chan~♪

Tomoya: Then I think I’ll have the same.

Hajime: Okay. One apple juice for Tomoya-kun too. Here you go.

Tomoya: Thanks, Hajime.

Man, it’s almost a month since we filmed “New Start Go!”, huh.

It’s still cold outside but it’s gradually turning into spring, so it’s really nearing the time for new beginnings, huh.

Hajime: Hehe. When we filmed the show and when it airs on TV is different, so it messes with our sense of time.

I also can’t believe we’ll be third-year students soon.

Tomoya: Yeah, you’re right… We’ll almost be the same age as Nii-chan when he first formed “Ra*bits”.

I couldn’t be an amazing senior like Nii-chan, but I’ve joined a proper entertainment agency, so I think I’ve done pretty well…?

Nazuna: No no, I’m not that amazing, you know?

I’m just pushing myself and trying not to show how lame I am to my juniors~ I think you’re way more reliable than me, Tomo-chin.

I’m looking forward to seeing you guys as third-year students at Yumenosaki.

Mitsuru: Yup. We’re gonna be fresh new third-years!

Ah! Look at this! The new employee was just on screen!

This was from back then, right? It sure feels nostalgic, y’know~♪

Tomoya: Ahaha… This is the scene where one of the cameramen went with us to the tea room, right? That took me by surprise when I checked the footage afterwards.

I heard he and the other employees gave their permission to be filmed, but it’s a pretty private matter, so I panicked for a moment there.

Hajime: Hehe. I was surprised too. It seems they filmed a portion of it from start to finish.

But that just means the new employee was able to open his heart up to the others. I’m happy things went well for him ♪

Nazuna: But still, “‘Ra*bits’ helped him regain his enthusiasm for work”, huh…

I know it’s part of the editing, but those subtitles seem a little exaggerated.

Hajime: The new employee had more than enough enthusiasm from the very beginning. He was worried about whether or not he was troubling those around him.

After comparing himself to people like us who’re close in age with him, he was able to learn what he was good at and could finally have some confidence in himself.

Tomoya: Not everything’s easy in this day and age~ It can be hard to even find confidence in yourself.

We helped convey the new employee’s enthusiasm to the others around him. In that sense, “New Start Go!” was a huge success, right?

Nazuna: Yeah. Good job, guys!

It’ll almost be three years since “Ra*bits” was formed. Let’s continue to do our best so that we can repay our fans who support us.

Mitsuru: Yeah, I’m gonna work hard too! So that people far and wide know what’s great about “Ra*bits”!

Woo~! I’m starting to get excited, y’know!

We had the wrap-up party yesterday, but I wanna liven things up today too!

Nii-chan, I wanna make a toast!

Nazuna: Ahaha, did you feel like making one after seeing the glass in your hand? Sounds like something you’d do ♪

But it’s not a bad idea. Watching “New Start Go!” has reminded us of our time working at the company…

Let’s have a toast and boost our mood ♪

For “Ra*bits’” growth and activities in the future…!

Cheers!

Mitsuru & Tomoya: Cheers~!

Hajime: Cheers…☆

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ← Previous Chapter

[miscelunaaa]

Post it on your tumblr please I've read all the chapters here.

So um, yeah, I'm really sorry, but no. That's just above my emotional bandwidth right now. I already tried posting it here and I got nothing but cricket noises for two chapters and the fucking masterlist. I had a handful of really wonderful folks who'd read it and left comments on it on AO3 already give it some love here but like, no new readers that I could see otherwise doing more than just liking it on Tumblr or even ignoring that it existed. That doesn't tell me that they actually read any of it. That's fine. I'm not obligated to feedback. While the silence wasn't a complete surprise given how much interaction has tapered off for my writing since going on hiatus for a few months and then coming back, it was still rather jarring after how it took off on AO3?? I just really don't have the bandwidth to go through all of the hassle and stress of formatting my notes and warnings (of which there are many for this series) for Tumblr when it's accessible on AO3 if you've got an account. I simply don't have the energy to post it here, especially if it's not being read by anyone here.

To put this in perspective with how my day to day life has been going, not that anyone deserves more explanation for why I haven't been more expedient in posting or for why I've decided not to post it here:

I'm working my ass off getting underpaid to do freelance editing work as a day job and I'm struggling constantly with trying to make sure I maintain safe and sane boundaries around that sort of work for myself. I'm also taking on more responsibilities with an institution I'm involved with in a town nearby where I live. I care deeply about what they're trying to do and they need someone younger and able-bodied to do the shit I'm willing to do with/for them. I'm also adjusting to a new medication and it has singlehandedly slaughtered my sleep schedule over the past calendar week and I haven't been able to get more than six or seven hours of poor-quality sleep a night, if that. I'm averaging four. I live in the United States, where it is currently the Holiday Season. I belong to a high liturgical christian church for which Christmas is a major feast. I have large family I haven't seen all in one place in over two years and I'm traveling to visit them soon. Like, I'm sorry. Editing a fic I want to make sure comes out right when I post it just needs more time than I am currently able to give it this week, and probably even next week.

You can say that you've read it all here, and that's fine, but like, I've already talked about why I'm not posting it here any longer. You've read only two chapters here. I've talked about this fic a lot, I've dropped links to the damn thing AO3 constantly. It's in like four places at any given time on my blog. If this story is a big deal to you and you care about it, you've had plenty of opportunities to go read it on AO3. It's been posting there since July.

I wanted to be kinder than this, because I don't see the point in being short or critical with folks who just aren't with it for whatever reason. I'm not angry. You are, however, catching me at a particularly bad moment. I'm tired. I've had a spiraling, depressive episode working on me for 24 hours. I finally cried it out with my husband over the past two. If I extend kindness to a person by responding to a question most other writers would likely ignore, I do expect to at the very least have it returned.

I know you likely didn't mean for this to come off poorly, but let this be a lesson to you and anyone else reading that sometimes you just have exercise more care than this. You never know what's going on on the other side of the screen.

[monsterkiss]

A Win-Win Situation

Description: The reader and their favorite character play a video game when favorite character makes a suggestion: whoever loses has to do whatever the winner wants.

Warnings: sexual themes (18+); masturbation, oral sex, very mild and lighthearted Owner/pet

Notes: (F/C) - your favorite character's name, (Y/N) - your name. Gender neutral reader and F/C. This fic is incredibly old and pretty bad but I wanted to repost it on here anyway for sort of archival purposes. Didn't edit or try to improve anything, the text is kept the way it was at the time when I first wrote and posted it.

It was originally written for a request on a different blog. Maybe someone would enjoy this? Or find it entertaining at least.

Word count: ~3000

—————

"I'm gonna kick your ass!"

"Can't wait to see you try!"

(F/C) and you flopped down on the couch, grabbing controllers as the game was loading. They looked at you and grinned.

"I don't even need to try, (Y/N). You always lose anyway." They winked and their attention shifted back to the screen.

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. It wasn't the complete truth. You won sometimes, it wasn't like you always lost to them. Still, they were right. They were a pro at this game and almost always won, so your threats barely meant anything.

But you still wanted to try and win.

—————

As the game started, you started losing. One time, second time, third time... It already sent you into a gloomy mood. (F/C), on the other hand, was overjoyed, almost bouncing on their spot with a wide grin on their face and eyes sparkling with excitement. "I'm going to win!"

At least it was pleasant to see them so happy about winning a game. It made you smile as well, despite your defeats. "I'm sure you will," you sighed, leaning back, tired and bored. You felt like there was no reason to play anymore. What was the point if (F/C) was going to win anyway? "There's no point in playing anymore, right?" you voiced your thoughts and held up the controller. "Let's finish and agree that you won?"

(F/C) looked at you with wide eyes, as though your words honestly shocked them. "Are you joking? Of course we have to finish. It's a rule."

You frowned. "There's no such rule."

"Now there is."

They were already winning again, cheering and pretty much jumping on their seat in excitement. You let out a sigh, resigned, and continued playing with them.

—————

Seemed like the tables turned.

You were leaning forward, fully concentrated on what was happening on the screen. Nothing could make you look away. Because suddenly you were moving towards making the score even.

(F/C) sat next to you, not as happy as they were before. Instead, now they were the one who looked gloomy, a frown on their face and a pout as they sulked while they kept playing. Their fingers were gripping the controller tightly and their whole body was tense. They certainly didn't want to let you win.

"I won!" you exclaimed and beamed at them.

(F/C) clicked their tongue, angrily throwing the controller on the couch. It bounced but didn't fall on the floor and remained in place. "Yeah, you won this time, you didn't win completely," they corrected you grumpily. "The score is even."

"Okay, I won this time and I made the score even," you grinned at them. "Seems like I am going to kick your ass, (F/C)."

They looked at you with that frown still on their face and you could almost see the wheels turning in their head. Because a moment later their eyes gleamed mischievously and they smiled slowly, their tense expression turning into a sly one.

"Yeah. Maybe. Seems like you're being pretty competitive today, huh?"

"Yeah, sort of," you responded cautiously, not being able to tell where they were going with this.

"So I guess it's not going to be easy for me to win," they mused out loud.

You really didn't like how sly they sounded. "(F/C), just what are you getting at?"

"I suggest that the winner gets a prize."

Interesting. "What kind of prize?"

(F/C)'s smile turned into a lazy grin. Their expression was hard to decipher. You wondered just what was on their mind at the moment. "The winner gets the loser to do whatever they want."

That didn't sound too bad. "Fine," you shrugged and smiled. "I'll get you to clean the whole house in this case."

"Oh, no, no." (F/C) held up their index finger and wagged it at you. You frowned in confusion. "You got it all wrong." Their smile seemed to get wider and they leaned closer towards you. Instinctively you leaned backwards but they still were very close to you, their eyes staring into yours, their smile toothy and predatory. "The loser does whatever the winner asks them to. Sexually."

Oh. Oh. You had to look away for a moment, your cheeks growing warm. Your throat instantly felt dry and you swallowed. (F/C) wasn't touching you, but you could almost feel them, their warm breath reaching your face. You could feel they were staring at you intently.

"Don't pretend you don't like the idea," they muttered softly.

Doing sexual favours for the winner, huh? Interesting. Very very interesting. Quite frankly, it looked like a win-win situation to you, whether you won or lost. It sounded... exciting.

"Fine," you told them, looking back into their eyes, and smiled. "You'll lose and I'll make you into my little sex toy for tonight," you grinned.

They grinned back, their expression suddenly changing from predatory back to playful and friendly, as though they hadn't just suggested doing sexual favours for each other. "Great!" they pulled back and grabbed their controller again. You sighed with some relief. Being this close to them while talking about things like that got you all hot and bothered. The tension that was between you two just a moment ago now was gone. Mostly. "Gonna kick your ass and then have it all to myself!"

You couldn't help but chuckle. You took the controller too and started the game again.

You wondered whether (F/C) actually wanted to win or lose.

—————

You were losing. Again. Unbelievable, but you were losing. You were so confident you would win this time, what with all that luck that you were having before. But now you were losing and you could already tell how inevitable it was that you weren't going to win.

And (F/C) was happy. Oh so happy. They were grinning like a maniac as they kept winning again and again, not leaving you a chance to retaliate. Their eyes were shining, focused on the screen all the time, and their nimble fingers working on the controller with ease.

Yep. You had no chance.

"Hell yeah!" they exclaimed, throwing their hands up in the air. "I won! I won!"

"Yeah, you did," you agreed, slumping back on the couch. (F/C) really was the best at this game, just like they always claimed to be. "Congrats."

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"How about 'Tell me what to do, Owner'?"

You blushed. Positively blushed at their words. And felt a shiver run down your spine. They were just messing with you, you were sure of it, and at the same time it was enough to get a reaction from you.

You raised an eyebrow at them, still trying to keep the conversation playful and light. "And do you want me to?"

"I don't care. But you remember our agreement, right?" they started shifting closer.

You felt the tension growing again. Thick and heavy. And their gaze was heavy too, not staying on your face only, but appreciatively going up and down your body. It made you instantly feel hot all over. You felt trapped and yet you didn't try to move away. Especially because you already were pressing yourself into the corner of the couch, having nowhere to go.

Not that you wanted to, honestly. Again, it was a win-win situation. But that didn't mean it didn't make you nervous. In a positive way, but still. You felt anticipation, yet apprehension.

"Well..." you hesitated.

"You're going to live up to your word, right, (Y/N)?" they asked. They were leaning over you, again not touching you, but so close you could almost feel them. Their breath sliding across your skin. Their eyes peering into yours. "You're going to be a good pet and do what I say?" their fingers touched your cheek lightly and caressed gently, a crooked smile growing on their lips. It made you realize they were as unsure as you were and they clearly needed your permission.

Well, how could you deny them?

You smiled. "Of course, (F/C)... Or do you like 'Owner' better?" you gave them a sly look.

They grinned. "You know..." their breath was mingling with yours, their lips almost touching yours. "I think I don't mind if you call me that."

They held your chin and their lips pressed against yours, molding them perfectly. They were quick and fierce, sliding their tongue into your mouth right after. The kiss could only be described as greedy. It felt like they wanted everything and all at once and you barely could keep up.

Your hands were all over each other instantly. (F/C) pushed you down on the couch, forcing you to spread your legs so they could lie between them. Their crotch pressed against yours and they rolled their hips, making you moan. They kept kissing you greedily, hungrily, relentlessly. It was like they were trying to devour you. Their predatory part was back to its fullest.

(F/C)'s hands stroked down your body, touching openly and squeezing possessively. Your hands were stroking over their shoulders, burying into their hair as you responded to their kisses willingly. However, they seemed to have something else in mind because they grabbed your hands and pinned them down above your head.

They pulled back, both your breathing laboured and heavy against each other's moist lips. "No," they said hoarsely, gazing down at you from under heavy eyelids. "You just lie down and be a good pet, letting your Owner do as they please." They smirked down at you.

(F/C)'s words made you tremble with excitement. You smiled in response, squirming a little, your arousal is already obvious. You didn't try to struggle, though, letting (F/C) hold you down against the couch.

(F/C) waited for a response, waited for you to say if you actually wanted to stop. But as you said nothing, they realized that you wanted to keep going. Happy about it and pleased with your obedience, (F/C) kissed you again and then started trailing wet kisses down your neck. Their free hand stroked down your body, feeling you up, and then slipped under your top to do the same to your chest. You whimpered as they took your nipple between their fingers, pinching and twisting it, making pleasure go through your body. It seemed like you'd just started and you already were a putty in their hands, but you couldn't help it. You were excited. You wanted it and enjoyed this whole thing, being a little embarrassed and yet already so horny.

Their big warm hand kept caressing you, teasing you, playing with you. They pushed your top up to your chin, exposing your chest and paying it a lot of attention. They bit and sucked on the skin of your neck, leaving hickeys there, and then moved their mouth to your nipples. Playing with one of them with their hand, they took another one into their mouth and sucked harshly, biting it gently and then licking.

You could feel their crotch press against you between your legs so you rolled your hips against theirs, this time making them moan. It was obvious how aroused they were as well.

"Fuck, (Y/N)..." they swore under their breath, sighing against your moist skin. "Fuck, I want you so much..."

You rolled your hips again and saw (F/C) close their eyes as they bit down into their lower lip. "Then fuck me already," you whispered to them.

(F/C) opened their eyes to look at you. They chuckled. "You're being naughty. A pet shouldn't tell their Owner what to do." Their eyes were dark with lust and yet they were twinkling merrily.

You couldn't help but chuckle too. "Am I being a bad pet, Owner?" you asked playfully.

They hummed as though deep in thought. "No. You're being a very good pet. So you're going to get your reward."

And with that their hand started moving down until it reached your hips. They slid their hand under your clothing, covering your crotch over the underwear. (F/C) stroked you through it, getting another moan from you.

"Oh, would you look at that," they grinned. "Someone's very excited, huh?"

"Your fault," you muttered almost thoughtlessly, unable to focus on anything else anymore, only their hands and lips.

(F/C) laughed breathlessly. "I sure hope so."

They kept stroking you, teasing you more, their lips leaving soft kisses on your stomach, until you started to squirm and whine impatiently. Then they brought their hand to your mouth, looking at you expectantly. You didn't need to be told what to do, you could see what they wanted. So you obediently opened your mouth and they put their fingers in, and you licked and sucked on them eagerly, coating them in your saliva. (F/C) watched you with that dark look in their eyes, their cheeks flushed and mouth slightly open. They enjoyed the sight as much as they enjoyed the feeling of your tongue.

When they pulled their hand away, their lips were against yours once more. (F/C) shoved their tongue into your mouth and started kissing you with force, biting your lips and making you moan once again. Their hand pushed down your underwear and then you felt their fingers, wet with your saliva, press against your entrance, and you bucked your hips against them, whining into the kiss. You felt (F/C) grin and they didn't try to push their fingers in right away, but just rubbed them against your entrance for a while. But then they finally pushed one finger in and started thrusting, pushing the second one in after a while.

You were so aroused so it didn't take long. The pleasure was building fast and heavy within you, your whole body hot and sometimes trembling slightly. The thrusts of their fingers were quickly becoming fast and hard, making you dizzy and light-headed with pleasure. You kept moaning and whimpering and at some point started saying their name without realizing it. (F/C) kept watching you intently, as though not wanting to miss a thing.

"Oh god... (F/C)... I'm so close..." you muttered, arching away from the couch.

"Then cum. Cum now."

Their words, their eyes on you, their hand working on you with such effort, you couldn't take it anymore. You came and arched away from the couch, crying out, their name coming out as a moan. Even then (F/C) kept thrusting their fingers, and when you went fully limp they slowed down and pulled out, rubbing around your entrance for a bit. Eventually they removed their hand completely.

Sated and tired now, you lay on the couch, gazing up at them with a smile. Their lips came down crashing against yours again, kissing you with the same hunger as before. You embraced them around their neck, realizing that your hands were free now. You couldn't keep up with them at all anymore, almost letting them do all the work in the kiss, and it was when you also realized that they were still horny.

You pulled apart and before you could say anything, they grinned sitting back on their knees and opening the zipper of their pants and pulling it down along with underwear. It was obvious to you how aroused they were and they started touching themselves, making small sounds of pleasure at the sensations. You were so mesmerized by the sight so you didn't notice how they were staring at you with want.

"Will you be a good pet and return the favour, (Y/N)?" they asked in a low and hoarse voice. You looked up to meet their gaze full of desire and yet patient and calm. "Will you... help me out here?" (F/C) chuckled.

They seemed to be so confident before, but now they were stalling. Why? But as you looked at their face closely, you realized what was the reason. Of course, once again, they needed your permission and weren't going to do anything you didn't want them to do. So they were hesitating and waiting for your response.

But again, how could you deny them?

You smiled and without saying anything opened your mouth. (F/C) understood what you wanted and grinned, moving closer until they could straddle your face.

They lowered themselves on you and you started working on them with your mouth, just like you did with their fingers before. But now with even more care and effort, sucking and licking all over. Your nose was hit with their scent and you could feel their wonderful taste on your tongue. They seemed to be all over you and all your senses were filled with them.

You heard (F/C) moan and looked up to see their face. Their expression was contorted in pleasure, they were biting their lower lip and their gaze was on you. Once again, as though not wanting to miss a thing. As you kept working with your mouth, you felt their hand – one that previously was holding you down – touch your head and stroke your hair gently, a great contrast to how strongly they held you down with the same hand before.

"Yes..." their voice was husky. "Yes, what a good pet... oh god, yes... fuck..."

You felt them bucking their hips lightly, not too strong to make it difficult to you to continue what you were doing. You could tell they were close.

"Fuck, yes— shit!" their hand closed around your hair and they bucked their hips stronger this time, throwing their head back. They came but you continued sucking and licking them until you felt them push you away gently and you stopped.

Both of you slumped down on the couch on the opposite sides of each other, breathing heavily and looking at each other. Then you both smiled at the same time and started laughing softly.

"Fuck, it was great," (F/C) said.

"Yeah," you nodded in agreement. "It was awesome."

"We should repeat it sometime."

"Sure." Grinning, you crawled on top of them and pecked them on the lips. "In this case I don't mind losing to you this much."

(F/C) just grinned in response, embracing you and kissing you back.

[billconrad]

Writing Became Difficult

   I began writing my fifth book (Pushed to The Edge of Existence) with high hopes. The plot was solid, and I had well-established characters. The first 60% jumped onto my screen until I got to the best part of the story. This was the juicy section where I described how the universe worked. I had been thinking about this part for over a year, and after two pages… Blah. Blah? What was blah? Why had the words stopped? I did not have a clue.

   When I have a writing issue, I distract myself for ten minutes and get back to it. This trick did not work, and instead, I punted by taking a thorough analysis into self-editing earlier sections of the book. The next day, I began my writing by self-editing and occasionally writing a sentence or two. My output went from a chapter a week to a few paragraphs a month. It was terrible.

    This lackluster performance lasted for at least two months, and I changed tactics by forcing myself to write an awful paragraph daily. They required lots of self-editing to make any sense. It was evident that I had lost my focus. To make matters worse, the writing was no longer fun, and I considered stopping altogether.

    Writers call this “writer’s block.” It means that they cannot continue. Typically, this occurs when the next part of the story is unclear. A significant logic/plot/character issue often prevents the story from working. However, I knew exactly what I wanted to write and what it should read like. My problem was more fundamental. I did not want to write. To solve the problem, I took some time to think about my situation. As a test, I looked at the last paragraph and felt hesitation. I categorized these feelings as anger, stubbornness, and fear.

    What was the source of these negative emotions? I was not sure. Something new was occurring, and I needed a fresh approach. Well, I am an electrical engineer. What is an “engineering” approach to solving this dilemma, like an extensive technical analysis? Or would I take the soft approach by talking to my friends and family? Search the internet for solutions? Not quite. I solved my problem by not solving it.

    This choice freed up time, and I focused on home projects—lots of gardening. I even thought up a bunch of new topics to blog about. So, it seemed natural to write about this very subject. I did not intend to solve the issue but to explore it for entertainment.

   I did this until I got to this very paragraph. I must have re-edited the above ten times until I concentrated on problems with my first book. The marketing has not been going well because I am not a natural salesman. Perhaps I was secretly blocking myself from completing this fifth book to prevent another bad marketing situation from occurring. Seems logical.

    Was I tired of the characters? Not really. As I think about them, my only negative emotion is jealousy. They are young and get to have exciting lives. Why can’t my life be like that? No, that was not the source of the problem. Fear of success? Or failure? I have come to grips with the reality that writing is a hobby, and I will never be a megastar like Tom Clancy.

    Am I tired of writing? Again, no. At this very moment, writing this sentence is an enjoyable experience. I just thought of a new blog topic.

Look forward to “Working With An Editor.”

    Eventually, I came up with a plan. I was going to jump right in. When I got stuck, I would write my negative thoughts and answer some questions. Why was I feeling frustrated? How good would it feel to continue? How should I be feeling? What should I be writing about? Once I captured some thoughts, I would try again. This data collection would allow me to analyze my thoughts and look for patterns. There is that engineering mind again. Collect data, organize, and analyze. “The conclusion will rise above the noise.” Now, if I could put all that data into Microsoft Excel…

    With a lofty spirit, I jumped to where I had stopped. Next to my computer, I placed a notepad and was ready to capture my anxious thoughts. Immediately, I felt the wall. I did not want to type. So, I walked to the refrigerator to get a glass of iced tea. Then, I sat in front of my computer and felt frustrated because I feared what was happening. I looked at the blank page on the pad and did not want to write down my thoughts. “It’s write the book or write your feelings. Your choice!”

    Rather than let everybody know what was up in my baffling mind, I forced myself to write a paragraph and then another. The last thing I wanted to do was to have the world know why I could not be a happy writer. As I typed, I “had” to get up four times for a snack. This entire experience made me angry and frustrated. The words I slammed into Microsoft Word were terrible.

    However, after an hour of pounding, writing became more manageable, and I had genuine writer’s block. I knew the next part of the story but did not know how to make the leap. So, I stared at a blank wall, worked through the issue, and returned to writing. Three hours later, I looked at the clock. 11:30 p.m. Half an hour past bedtime. I powered through 15 pages!

    Amazing? Unexpected? Yes, it was. My fear of recording my fearful thoughts shamed me back into writing. What the heck? The human mind is indeed strange.

    In hindsight, I am not sure what my issue was. My best guess is that I embraced my fear, breaking me out of my funk. Perhaps the lack of success built up a roadblock. The amusing thing is that writing broke my fear of writing. Was this a logical procedure, or had writing inspired me to write? Or am I a brilliant writer that got stuck? Let’s go with the last one.

    Since that time, there have not been any significant problems. I again enjoy getting my characters into deep trouble and helping them out. Plus, I still have that blank notepad and will record my thoughts if there is ever an issue. Hopefully, I will not have to write, “Writing Is Difficult Again.”

    You’re the best -Bill

    July 08, 2023

    Hey book lovers, I published four. Please check them out:

    Interviewing Immortality. A dramatic first-person psychological thriller that weaves a tale of intrigue, suspense, and self-confrontation.

    Pushed to the Edge of Survival. A drama, romance, and science fiction story about two unlikely people surviving a shipwreck and living with the consequences.

    Cable Ties. A slow-burn political thriller that reflects the realities of modern intelligence, law enforcement, department cooperation, and international politics.

    Saving Immortality. Continuing in the first-person psychological thriller genre, James Kimble searches for his former captor to answer his life’s questions.

    These books are available in soft-cover on Amazon and eBook format everywhere.

[aprayerforclarity]

4/12

I've been feeling pretty off today. It was when I was driving in my car that I realized I felt very introspective and melancholic today. Around 4:30 pm I took some mushrooms because I felt very unfocused. I guess I thought it was "shake up" my neurons and somehow get me into focus, but instead sent me further into my introspection.

When trying to rationalize why I'm feeling low, I think about the lack of sleep I had last night. I went to bed around 11:45 PM last night, and awoke to the sound jackhammering. When I glanced at my alarm clock it said 230. I remember feeling wide awake, and slightly hungry, so I went to the kitchen to eat some peanut butter. I find that eating sometimes puts me back to sleep. Anyways, I got on my phone, which, even in the moment, I knew was a big "no-no" and began looking up any books about Governnor John WHite. After a while of reading and scrolling, I realized I wasn't getting any more tired, so I tired mediatiation. I sat up on the side of my bed, put in ear plugs and set my alarm for 15 minutes and 20 seconds (the 20 extra seconds accounted for me putting my phone down and putting on my eyemask)

Like my attitude with a lot of my mediatiion, there was nothing gained from it, but I did expect to feel a bit more tired after it. That didn't seem to help, so I tired reading my book. An hour or so went by, and by this time it was around 5:15 AM. In a last attempt to get me to fall asleep, I decided I would go to Bojanges (my favorite fast food breakfast) for a SEC biscuit when they opened at 5:30. I ate it in the car as I drove back.

I have to continue this in an hour or so, because I have to attending a Codesmith Meeting on how to Prepare for the Technical Interview.

TBC

I'm back now. The meeting about the Technical Interview did put my mind at ease. It's going to be challenging, but I feel like I have properly gauged the difficulty and know the challenges and timelines that lie ahead. I just downloaded a couple books to my kindle to help with my full understanding of the concepts, and I'm excited to dive in!!!

Anyway, during my depressed mushroom trip to the sauna today I realized something. The concept of writing I'm building in my head goes like this:

You have to tell the reader everything that is going on in a scene. Whatever you don't write, the reader cannot see

Instead of trying to constantly build off of what you've written, forget about the previous paragraph. Each new opening and description of a scene or the thoughts of a character are new and novel. Just keep opening them up and let them flow!! You can tied them all together later.

It is important in a first draft to not worry about spelling or how "good" it sounds. Even now, I'm realizing I can write faster when I'm not focused on the words and just streamlining my thoughts.

You can go back and edit. That's a huge secret weapon. There are two parts of the brain, the part that mystically pulls out the images and flows them onto the paper, and the part that makes them sound (and look) good.

When trying to get a though down, I need to just let it flow. My flow can be ruined if I even look at the words on the screen. I feel like at a simple misspelling or the misuse of a word, I'm already having to backtrack and it disrupts my flow. I'm trying to write and edit at the same time, and that just isn't working so well. From here on out, I'm going to employee this self discovered technique. Just let the thoughts flow(by only looking at the keyboard) and then go back and edit them and fix any mistakes. Perhaps I'll eventually get better at doing both simultaneously, but each of those skills seem to be mutually exclusive at the moment and I will treat them as such!